


second child

by KikiRose



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Child Abuse, M/M, implied csa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KikiRose/pseuds/KikiRose
Summary: Forced to take up the mantle of his deceased brother, Prince Laurent is a phantom who moves through Arles alone and constantly under attack. He is the man with no heart, the stone-cold bitch, the frigid royal among all the decadent pleasures of his court. All of that changes when the man he hates the most is given to him as a slave, and Laurent is faced both with his past and with his future. Will Damianos, Prince-Killer of Akielos, be Laurent’s undoing? Or savior?The most memorable moments of the Captive Prince series told sequentially through Laurent’s eyes.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to dedicate this story to Chester Bennington, who passed away while I was in the middle of writing it.  
> Linkin Park helped me get started as a writer. In seventh grade, I would listen to them while I started developing my writing skills, my voice, my style. Chester's voice helped guide me into becoming the person I am today.  
> I think, at the end of the day, the Captive Prince series is all about healing. And Linkin Park helped heal me so much.  
> Rest in peace, Chester. I'm always thinking about you. Thank you for everything.

_ See, I was born the second child _

_ With a spirit running wild, running free _

_ And they saw trouble in my eyes _

_ They were quick to recognize the devil in me. _

“Second Child, Restless Child”, The Oh Hellos

_ *Bath scene replicated from C.S Pacat’s  _ Captive Prince  _ Chapter Three _

 

Auguste's statue didn’t look much like him at all. It had all the elements, the strong chin, the cheekbones, the way the the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. Somehow it didn’t come together, though, and the statue looked like a stranger wearing Auguste’s regalia. It captured none of Auguste’s cheer and good humor. Laurent could still see him, a young man off to war, boasting and roaring with laughter. 

_ Hey, Lo, what’s better than one dead Akielon?  _

_ What, Auguste? _

_ A hundred dead Akielons! _

_ That doesn’t make any sense, Auguste.  _

_ You’re so stern, Lo, lighten up. It’s a joke! Tell him it’s funny, father.  _

Laurent stared up at Auguste’s stone face, running his hands through his own hair. He had come here to build up courage, to remind himself of his course of action. His uncle was leaving for a hunting trip. Now was the time to both have his revenge on the Akielon and remove him as a threat. If he didn’t act now, his uncle would surely use the Akielon slave against him. 

He had come up with a plan that was repugnant, and, if Laurent was being honest with himself, rather frightening. He wanted to believe he was not afraid of this man, this disgraced Prince--the warrior who had killed Auguste. But he was. He had been, for years. As many years as he had plotted to kill Damianos, he had feared him. And now the brute was here, in golden chains, served up as if on a platter. 

Laurent had to act. His hands were shaking. 

The day before the Veretian army had left for war, Auguste had pulled Laurent aside. They were in Auguste’s chambers, away from the hustle and bustle of the court. 

“Brother, I must speak candidly with you,” Auguste had murmured, putting a knuckle under Laurent’s chin and lifting his head, “though I know it will upset you.”

Laurent had bit his lip, fear already filling him. Auguste never looked this worried, with a pinched face and dark eyes.

“Is something wrong?” Laurent asked quietly. 

“The Akielons are strong, Laurent,” Auguste said softly, “they are a fierce people. We call them savages here, but it is not true. Their kingdom is large and flourishing, and their warriors are expertly trained and incredibly cunning in battle.” 

Laurent had made a face, “Papa says this fight will be easy.”

Auguste’s expression was hard, “Papa is an old man now, Laurent, and he has lived for too long in peace and ease. He is not as fierce as he once was, and he underestimates our enemy.”  

“Uncle says--”

Auguste’s hand resting on Laurent’s shoulder jerked suddenly, and something crossed his face that made Laurent’s blood run cold. He had never seen his brother like this before. 

“Laurent, I need to speak to you about our uncle,” Auguste’s voice had gone very low, “and I don’t want you to repeat a word of this conversation. Can you promise me that?” 

“Yes,” Laurent said quietly. 

“If something,” for a moment it looked as if Auguste were about to cry, but he quickly rearranged his features, “if something happens to me, Laurent, I need you to--”

“No!” Laurent had backed away, shoulders heaving. “No, don’t say that! Nothing will happen!” 

Auguste looked exasperated, “Brother, this is war! You are young still, but no fool. You know there are risks.”

Laurent knew, but refused to accept them. He stared at Auguste, not saying a word.

Auguste closed the distance between them and put his hands on Laurent’s shoulders, “my Laurent, my little shadow. All of your life, I have protected you. There are eyes that follow you in this court, when you are not watching. There are those who wish you all manner of harm, and if something happens to me you will be vulnerable. You will be alone, and you will be the Heir. Do you understand me?” 

“You won’t leave me,” Laurent had whispered, utterly sure of that fact.

Pain had spasmed across Auguste’s face, and he gripped Laurent’s shoulders in a way that was bruising, “I will do all I can to make sure of that, Laurent. But I need you,  _ I need you,  _ to promise me something. If anything happens to me, please promise me this.”

Laurent had simply nodded, unable to get words out around the lump in his throat.

Auguste’s face was very grim, “If I do not return here, and our uncle does, you must stay away from him. Do you understand me?” 

Shock had coursed through Laurent, “but--”

“Laurent,” Auguste looked more terrifying than Laurent had ever seen him, “there is much about our uncle you do not know. Promise me, if you are alone here, protect yourself. Leave if you must, beg to go to a boarding school or a neighboring kingdom. Do not leave yourself alone with uncle.” 

“Auguste--”

“Promise me,” Auguste had hissed, squeezing Laurent’s shoulders so hard Laurent cried out. Auguste released him, murmuring words of apology as he pulled Laurent into a hug and patted the top of his head. 

The hug soothed Laurent and he buried his face into Auguste’s shirt, taking deep breaths. 

“I promise, Auguste,” Laurent had murmured, desperate to return his brother to his normal, happy self. 

Auguste’s whole body had gone slack with relief. Laurent couldn’t remember what they had done after that, where they had gone. The long, black tunnel of war and death that came soon after overshadowed everything

Laurent sat down heavily at the foot of Auguste’s statue, staring down at his boots. 

“I broke that promise, Auguste,” Laurent whispered, “if only you had told me what kind of man our uncle was. I protected myself against violence, against cruelty. I did not know to protect myself from what I thought was love.” 

It sounded like a flimsy excuse, but it was the truth. Young, out of his mind with grief, and naive to the workings of the court, Laurent had thought Auguste meant to watch out for plots against him. Villainy that was obvious, cruelty that Laurent would be able to see right away. When his uncle had gathered him up in his arms with gentle words and the promise of love, Laurent had thought Auguste had gotten it all wrong. His uncle would protect him. 

Thanks to Damianos, his uncle had been all Laurent had. 

Clenching his fists, Laurent stood. He was ready. He could do this. He would be strong, for Auguste, and he would be smart. Damianos would fall, and then his uncle. Finally, Laurent would have his revenge on the two men who had wronged him. 

  
  


The baths were stifling hot. Laurent was fully dressed and sweating under the layers, but he wanted the Akielon  to have to undress him. He wanted to debase his fellow Prince, break him as he had broken Laurent. The proud Akielon would kneel. 

Finally, Damen entered. Laurent had to stop himself from snorting at the way Damen carried himself. Laurent couldn’t believe the brute thought he was fooling anyone; head high, shoulders back, whole body controlled. He walked into the baths like a soldier into battle, every move calculated. His eyes were darting around, taking quick assessments of his surroundings. When his eyes fell on Laurent, he frowned. 

“So, my slave is bashful in the arena. Don’t you fuck boys in Akielos?”

It was something Laurent was curious about. Damen had shown no flicker of weakness or desire, not watching the choreographed fucking of pets or during his own match. Laurent wondered if he only lusted after women. 

“I’m quite cultured,” the Akielon  responded in a voice that betrayed none of the concern Laurent saw on his face, “Before I rape anyone I first check to see if their voice has broken.”

It was a glib comment, but it sent ice up Laurent’s spine. He thought of Nicaise, looking up at Damen and saying things no young boy should ever say. Laurent’s stomach was turning. Somehow, the slave was managing to unhinge Laurent without even trying. Rage flared up in Laurent’s chest, and he decided to switch tactics. 

He smiled, “Did you fight at Marlas?” 

Damen’s eyes flashed. Laurent wondered if the brute thought he was better at controlling his facial expressions than he really was. His face was an open book, completely at odds with the rest of his warrior-like persona. 

“Yes,” Damen responded in a flat voice. 

“How many did you kill?” Laurent’s eyes flickered to the scar on the Akielon's’s shoulder, the one he knew Auguste had given him. 

“I don’t know,”

Laurent was seething. He wanted to scream  _ SAY HIS NAME  _ at the Akielon, wanted to force the confession out of Damen’s broken body. 

“Lost count?” Laurent asked quietly, making sure to keep his tone light. 

Damen said nothing.

“The barbarian won’t fuck boys,” Laurent sneered, “he prefers to wait a few years and then use a sword in place of his cock.” 

Damen’s neck and face flushed from olive to a mottled red, “It was a battle. There was death on both sides.” 

He was a fool. Laurent couldn’t believe he thought Laurent was such an idiot he wouldn’t realize who the Akielon was. 

“Oh, yes. We killed a few of you too. I would like to have killed more, but my uncle is unaccountable clement with vermin. You’ve met him.” 

“Have you waited six days to talk to me about your uncle?” Damen asked. 

He was undeniably a strategist. Laurent had hoped he simply spent his days wallowing in fear and grief, but it was obvious Damianos had not spent one moment in captivity where he wasn’t assessing his situation and surroundings. Not for the first time since the Akielon had entered the room, Laurent felt a brush of fear. 

Laurent disguised his discomfort by shifting against the wall, arranging himself to look as indolent as possible. 

“My uncle has ridden to Chastillon. He hunts boar. He likes the chase. He likes the kill, too,” he also liked the young son of the nobleman he was staying with, but that was neither here nor there, “It’s a day’s ride, after which he and his party will stay five nights at the old keep. His subjects know better than to bother him with missives from the palace. I have waited six days so that you and I could be alone.” 

Finally, fear crossed Damen’s face.

“Alone, with your men guarding the doors,” he said, as if that had any bearing on the situation. 

“Are you going to complain again that you’re not allowed to hit back? Don’t worry. I won’t hit you unless I have a good reason.” Laurent smiled sweetly. 

Arrogance flared on Damen’s face, erasing any fear, “Did I seem worried?” 

“You seemed a little agitated,” Laurent purred, “in the ring. I liked it best when you were on your hands and knees. Cur. Do you think I will tolerate insolence? By all means, try my patience.”

The Akielon was silent. It did not feel like subservience. 

“Shall I tell you the part you liked?” Laurent asked, hoping to once again shake Damen’s composure. 

“There was nothing I  _ liked.”  _ Damen responded indignantly, glaring at Laurent. 

Laurent’s mind, unbidden, went to the memory of the Akielon standing in the ring, skin slicked with sweat and oil and dark curls sticking up like a prickly halo. Like a hero of legend, Laurent had thought, a demi-god or elemental spirit. Something wild, something unearthly in its beauty. 

Disgust filled Laurent’s body and he practically spat out: “You’re lying. You liked knocking that man down, and you liked it when he didn’t get up. You’d like to hurt me, wouldn’t you? Is it very difficult to control yourself? Your little speech about fair play fooled me about as much as your show of obedience. You have worked out, with whatever native intelligence you possess, that it serves your interests to appear both civilised and dutiful. But the one thing you’re hot for is a fight.” 

“Are you going to goad me into one?” Damen asked, in a low and terrible voice. Laurent had to stop himself from smiling. Finally, a reaction. 

“I don’t roll in the sty with swine,” Laurent stood off the wall, “I’m here to bathe. Have I said something astonishing? Come here.” 

Damen hesitated for a moment before walking to Laurent slowly, carefully. Laurent fought for every ounce of control over his expression as possible. He wanted the Akielon to be completely unaware of Laurent’s thoughts.

“Strip,” Laurent demanded coolly. 

Another moment of hesitation. Slowly, Damen began to peel off his clothes. Laurent’s stomach flipped uncomfortably as more and more of Damen’s bronze skin became visible. He looked like someone who had spent their whole life outside, out in the sunshine. He was all muscle and sharp lines, except for his face--he had an honest-looking face with a curving jawline and a big, straight nose. His mouth was soft, round, and he had a dimple in his cheek. His eyes were big and brown as chocolate, shades darker than his skin but still in the same color family. He was all earth tones, and as he shed the last of his Veretian clothing, Laurent swallowed hard. 

“Undress me,” Laurent said quietly, desperate to claw himself out of whatever hell his mind was bent on concocting for him. His brother’s murderer sweet and honest looking? Laurent wanted to vomit, wanted to claw at his own eyes. He didn’t want to keep lingering on Damen’s broad shoulders and the dark hair on his chest. 

The Akielon approached Laurent, face confused. He had no idea where to start. Stifling a sigh of irritation, Laurent extended his arm. Damen began untying his laces. It was a tedious process, and Laurent had to stop himself from flinching away on several occasions. 

The Akielon hesitated when it came to Laurent’s boots and pants. Interesting. 

“Am I here to wait on the modesty of a servant?” Laurent asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. 

Damen frowned but knelt down, beginning to slip the boots off. Then Laurent’s pants. Laurent felt viciously, horribly exposed. For years now, the only people to dress or undress him was the small band of servants he kept in his quarters. They were all old women, too old to be pets or handmaidens. Some people tittered about him letting women dress him and see him unclothed, but they were all so ancient and crone-like no one expected impropriety. Laurent was desperately trying not to think about the last time he was naked in front of a man. 

Damen’s eyes were slowly sliding up and down Laurent’s body, putting Laurent’s teeth on edge. 

“Wash me,” Laurent gestured at the pitcher and cloths he had ordered to be brought earlier. 

After Damen had selected the soap, Laurent turned. Every atom in his body screamed at him not to turn his back to this Akielon, but he kept reminding himself he was in control. The soap splashed over Laurent’s skin in slippery rivulets, and Damen’s hands followed. The water was warm, but somehow Damen’s fingers were hotter. They massaged the liquids into Laurent’s skin as he worked his way from Laurent’s shoulders to lower back. The touch was agony. Laurent was fighting every moment to keep his breathing steady, but already his mind was slipping. He hadn’t been touched like this since--

_ No,  _ Laurent hissed to himself,  _ I cannot think of that now.  _

Damen’s fingers lingered at Laurent’s waist, the swell of his ass, gently curving up Laurent’s stomach, ribs, then back to his hips. 

Damen’s breathing grew more shallow and Laurent felt both the press of his chest and a familiar stiff warmth against his leg. Ice pierced his gut and for one terrible second he was a child again, pinned against a wall with an oppressive weight at his back--

Scrabbling for the present, Lauren breathed: “Don’t be presumptuous.”

Damen’s voice was thick, unhurried, “Too late, sweetheart.” 

Laurent turned, arm already raised to backhand the brute. He could stomach this no longer. Just as his hand fell, the Akielon caught it in a grip that was bruisingly strong. Laurent stilled. 

Fear, white-hot and sudden, broke through Laurent like a wave. It was like a nightmare--naked, restrained, a tall figure looming over him. His mind was shattering on a fault-line, sucking him back down into his childhood torments. He pulled his wrist, his body one spasm of desperate movement. Damen’s hand was unyielding. Laurent’s body tensed, and he hoped against hope the panic wasn’t visible on his face. Carefully, carefully, Laurent forced himself to breathe normally. 

“But my voice has broken,” Laurent said quietly, “That was the only prerequisite, wasn’t it?” 

Shock danced across Damen’s face and he dropped Laurent’s wrist suddenly. Laurent wasted no time. He lashed out, hitting Damen square across the mouth as hard as possible. As Damen reeled from the blow, Laurent felt joy bubble in his chest. He had his victory now. 

“ _ Get him out of here,”  _ Laurent said quietly.

His guards burst in and were on the Akielon in minutes, tugging his backwards. Now, Damen’s face was full of fear and defiance in equal measures. 

“Put him on the cross,” Laurent’s voice sounded ragged even to his own ears, “Wait for me to arrive.”

“Your Highness, regarding the slave, the Regent instructed--”

“You can do as I say, or you can go there in his place. Choose. Now.”

One more moment of indecision before the nod: “Yes, Your Highness.”

They dragged Damen out and Laurent waited until he was completely alone to collapse on all fours, breathing heavily. 

He had his victory, but it had taken a toll on him. He was battling to keep his memories at bay, to not become victim to them again. Swearing, he stood up on shaky legs and gathered his clothing up. 

_ This will be the last time I let another see me unclothed,  _ Laurent thought as he continued to return his breathing to normal,  _ no man will touch me again. I swear it.  _

He began toweling dry, heart still pounding. It was time for his vengeance on Damianos. Or, at least, the beginning of it. 

  
  


Hours later, as Laurent was laying in bed, he tried to capture the way the Akielon had looked when they’d carried him of the cross. Bloodied, broken, just as Damianos deserved to be.

Instead, the image of Damianos standing naked in front of him swum unbidden into Laurent’s mind. Laurent tossed and turned, trying to sleep, but he could not escape Damen’s heat-dampened curls and large, curious eyes. 

He hoped against hope that tonight, Damen would succumb to his wounds. Surely, death would end this. Hatred filled him, hot and bright, until finally sleep claimed him. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Two

_ And then my mirror speaks with irreverence _

_ Like a soldier I can't command _

_ It sees a frightened child in the body of a full-grown man _

-Death Cab For Cutie, “My Mirror Speaks”

_Set after the assassination attempt towards the end of Captive Prince._

 

The door closed behind Damen with a soft  _ thump _ , leaving Laurent alone in a room that smelled like blood.

Laurent allowed himself to slide down the wall into a sitting position, resting his forehead on his knees. His mind was racing, trying to pull together the threads and figure out his next move. It would come quickly, all the parts of the evening unfolding and mounting as he grappled to stay on top. His uncle would come, soon, and the questions would follow. 

Damen was gone, the fool, conceivably moving farther and farther away from Laurent’s influence. 

Laurent dragged his hands over his face, knotting his fingers in his hair as he forced himself to keep breathing steadily. He had been shaken by tonight in a way he couldn’t have predicted--he had known that his uncle was using the Akielon as another pawn on the board, another way to weaken Laurent or even to break him. But this had proved how far his uncle was willing to take that, making Damen complicit in Laurent’s murder.  _ The drug in the water.  _ Complicit in Laurent’s murder, and his defiling. 

Enraged, Laurent sprang up and grabbed a book off his mantle, hurling it at the full-length mirror by his armoire. The mirror shattered, spilling shards of glass onto the floor. Panting, Lauren walked to his bed and sat down, eyelids fluttering. 

His uncle had sought to ruin him one last time, drug him until he was practically begging for it. Even now, after witnessing slaughter and cutting throats, his blood was pumping hot and his cock was hard under the tight lacings of his trousers. It repulsed him, this readiness, this--this  _ invasion  _ of his body, yet again.

It would have been easy for Damen. Damianos. Prince Killer. A figure from Laurent’s nightmares. Damen could have done exactly what his uncle had wanted him to do. Instead, he had fought for Laurent. Saved his life. There hadn’t even been a moment of hesitation. 

_ Indebted to Auguste’s murderer,  _ a low voice whispered in his head,  _ for one moment he was your ally.  _

Laurent couldn’t think straight. The lacings of his trousers were straining and he couldn’t shake the image of the Akielon standing in front of him, large hand curled around Laurent’s wrist. His grip had been warm and tight, and Laurent could feel it still as if there were phantom fingers on him. If Laurent hadn’t been so weakened by the drug he wouldn’t have let go of the knife, but the brush of Damen’s palm against Lauren’s exposed wrist was enough to send electric shocks through Laurent’s stomach. 

“That brute,” Laurent whispered through clenched teeth, though he knew it wasn’t Damen’s fault this....this sick attraction. The Akielon clearly had nothing but disgust for Laurent, a feeling he more than happily shared. But he couldn’t deny--especially not now, with that drug coursing through his veins--that he had not regarded Damen with some appreciation before. He felt sickened by himself, rage and hate and betrayal all swirling in his chest as, unbidden, something his uncle had said to him long ago echoed through his mind:

_ I know you want what you should not, sweet boy. I see your hunger.  _

It would take years to realize his uncle’s words were poison, a sickness disguised as love. But by then Laurent was already ruined, already burned up and reborn as a creature with no heart. Perhaps that was why he hungered for the Akielon, drawn to the man who had destroyed Laurent’s life and slaughtered Auguste. Whatever it was inside him that his uncle had mangled, or that his uncle had seen and desired, it must be what made Laurent this way. Disgusting, broken. Searching for what he shouldn’t want. 

There was a knock on the door, loud and insistent, breaking Laurent from his dark spiral.

“Your Highness!” A familiar voice called, “It’s Jord!”

Laurent stood shakily, taking several breaths before walking to the door. He opened it revealing Jord, pale and distraught. He dropped to his knees in front of Laurent, a kind of supplication Laurent had never seen from the man before.

“We have failed you,” Jord breathed, and Laurent realized with a dull stab of humor that Jord’s appearance and panic was actually fear for himself and the other men of Laurent’s guard, not born out of any kind of worry for Laurent’s wellbeing. Perhaps they all expected to be flogged or executed, blamed for the breach in safety. They couldn’t know that the Regent was unstoppable and had his fingers on everything in the court. They were not to blame for this. 

“What is happening out there?” Laurent asked cooly, grabbing Jord’s shoulder and pulling him up, “I sent away my uncle’s men roughly half an hour ago and have had no further contact. Does no one in this place care their prince could have died tonight?” 

Jord frowned, “Your uncle sent a troop after the slave. He said he is the one who colluded against you, and that he would be brought to justice. He said you were being attended to but I wanted to come check...”

Jord trailed off, realizing that Laurent was very much alone and unattended. A stab of panic lanced through Laurent’s chest as Jord’s words settled. Damen was being hunted down for his uncle’s crime. Laurent was backed into a corner, and now he had to go try and stop his uncle from killing the man Laurent hated most in the world.

Laurent could let Damen take the fall and still figure out a way to stop his uncle. He could. He was putting his life on the line, doing this. 

But Damen had killed for him. Damen had been handed the opportunity to humiliate him, even be complicit in his death. Instead, he had protected Laurent. 

Laurent had not witnessed someone willingly help him, defend him, since Auguste had been killed. The thought was repellent, even painful. It stung Laurent, like a cut or burn. But he could not ignore it. 

“The slave was not responsible for this,” Laurent said curtly, “I want you to gather up more of my men and follow the Regent’s Guard. If Damen is captured, and I am sure he will be, make sure no harm befalls him and he is brought to me at once.” 

Jord had never looked more confused in all their time together, but he simply nodded and said, “Yes, Your Highness,” before excusing himself. 

Laurent closed the door behind him and turned back to his room. He would need to dress himself, quickly. His uncle was playing a game right now Laurent couldn’t quite grasp, not with the lack of sleep and powerful arousal muddying his thoughts. But he knew the next move was coming, and soon. He needed to be prepared.

Laurent selected a navy shirt and pulled it over his head. It was a bother to do all the laces on his own, but he had no time to call for assistance. He started with the ones at this throat and then the sets that went from his waist to his ribs. He couldn’t tie the ones at his wrists alone so he simply pulled them tight and then tucked the laces into the sleeve of his shirt. It was a trick Auguste had taught him years ago, allowing them to dress and then undress out in nature without servants. They would go to swimming hole in the woods, splashing each other and catching frogs until the air grew cold.

The memory hit Laurent like a punch to the gut and he felt tears spring to his eyes. This drug was weakening him, attacking his control. 

Angrily rubbing the tears off his cheeks, Laurent grabbed his boots and stuffed his feet into them, breathing heavily. He didn’t want his uncle to see him like this. The thought of his uncle being around him while Laurent was in this state filled him with bile, drudging up times in Laurent’s life he would give anything to forget. 

“Get yourself together,” Laurent breathed, clenching his hands together. Everything was riding on his ability to be cunning. Damen’s life was at stake, and if he died before Laurent could unburden himself of this debt he owed him, Laurent would be furious. 

As if brought on by Laurent’s undoing, there was another knock on his door. Steeling himself, Laurent opened it. A man from the Regent’s guard was standing there, face grim.

“The Regent wishes to see you in the throne room, Your Highness,” the man said, “immediately.” 

“Then let us not keep him waiting any longer,” Laurent smiled tightly, “lead the way.”

The door closed behind them, and Laurent took a deep breath as the man turned his back and began walking towards the throne room. 

_ Damianos,  _ Laurent thought as his footsteps rang out in the night,  _ if you die tonight I will be most displeased.  _

Around his wrist, Damen’s phantom fingers grew tighter. 

 


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art by the wonderful JackyJango (link to her Tumblr below). Thank you so much <3  
> https://jackyjango.tumblr.com/

_There’s a long, slow fade_

_To a darkened stage_

_And I hear you say_

_“Only a fool gives it away”_

_Only a fool would give_

_Only a fool gives it away._

“Good Help (Is So Hard To Find)”, Death Cab for Cutie

_*Dialogue and action at the end of the chapter replicated from C.S Pacat’s_ Prince’s Gambit _Chapter Eight_

 

Laurent could smell the aftermath of the battle. The woodsmoke, the burning flesh. The copper tang of blood mixed with the terrible, earthy must of churned mud.

_It is over, it is over, and we succeeded,_ Laurent kept chanting in his mind, but it did little to hold his fear at bay. Damen was not back yet.

_Let him leave,_ Laurent thought, flexing his fingers nervously, _I can do this alone._

It was a lie, and it was not one of his better ones. But he refused to rely on Damianos. At the very least, he refused to admit just how helpful the brute had been.

How unbalanced he was, how caught off guard he continued to be. Damen was the one thing his uncle had not been able to predict, and Laurent grudgingly had to admit he was turning out to be much the same.

Laurent stood up, pacing the inside of his tent, mind racing still. He couldn’t stop thinking about their night in Nesson, breathless and dangerous and unexpected.

_He’s expensive._

Halfway through their charade in the inn, Laurent had the shocking realization that he was having fun. He had played the game with Damen, relishing the give and take between them as they aimed to needle each other even as they worked together in harmony.

Laurent could still feel the slide of Damen’s trousers under his hand as he had leaned into the man, watching Damen’s eyes grow wide with desire. He had expected rage or disgust, the emotions that had filled him once Damen had become aroused in the baths. However, this time, all he felt was a kind of playful satisfaction. They had played at pet and master, yet Laurent knew they were both aware of the complex power dynamic between them. Laurent had taken the food from Damen’s fingers carefully, keeping the contact between them minimal. But he had seen the effect it had on Damen, the way his pupils had dilated and his cheeks had flushed. It had felt like a game, and one Laurent had wanted to keep playing.  

He had watched Damen rip the grills out of the brothel’s window with ease, as Laurent might wiggle open a sticky door. He hadn’t realized until now that apart from an impressive feat, the act had demonstrated something Laurent had already known: Damen could hurt him, badly, and chose not to. Time and time again, when they were alone, Laurent was vulnerable. Damen was a soldier and, quite obviously, stronger than most men.

_It’s a strategy,_ Laurent reminded himself, _he is being careful. It is a survival instinct, nothing more._

Deep down, Laurent could not escape the niggling suspicion that they were all at Damen’s mercy. Besides, they had been alone now several times--away from the walls of Arles, even removed from the other members of the camp. Still, Damen made no move to hurt him.

When Laurent had jumped to the waiting balcony, he had hit hard. He had felt all the air go out of him at the impact of stomach against stone. For a long moment he had dangled there, weak and blinking away black spots. Damen’s strong hands had grabbed him, pulled him to safety. Laurent had reached for him, held onto him. All the while, he waited to feel fear or disgust. None came. His hatred was still there, a numbness that rested against his heart. If anything, his hatred of the Akielon only grew in those moments when Damen was protective and tender.

He had pinned Damen up against the wall, bodies so close Laurent could smell him and feel his breath. Vulnerable, pressed tight up against his enemy, Laurent had laughed like a schoolchild caught up in some great prank. He could see Damen’s face still, exasperation twinkling in his dark eyes as he fought to keep from smiling.

_He is a fool and a murderer,_ Laurent thought angrily, his pacing only increasing in agitation, _he is the bastard Prince-Killer Damianos and he will leave you and betray you._

It was easy to tell himself, but becoming increasingly difficult to believe. Even if they were destined for nothing but animosity later on, especially once Damen finally admitted who he was, Laurent couldn’t deny what was sprouting between them.

Anger coursed through Laurent, hot and sudden, but he quickly tamped it down.

“Your Highness?”

Jord’s voice, recognizable even through the muffling silks of Laurent’s tent. Sighing, Laurent took a moment to settle his limbs and expression into controlled ease.

Laurent drew aside the tent flap, revealing Jord’s pinched face. He felt a stab of regret thinking of Orlant and Jord, laughing together as they completed some menial task.

“Jord,” Laurent said quietly, “Have you finished taking a tally of the dead? I told you not to bother me.”

“I know,” Jord swallowed, “I just wanted to know if there was any word on the Akielon.”

Laurent’s frown deepened, “Either he is dead, he has betrayed us, or he is on his way. Regardless, there is no reason to fret overmuch.”

The crease between Jord’s eyebrows deepened. There was a moment of silent understanding between them, the silent acknowledgment of how much they had grown to rely on Damen’s seemingly never ending expertise and strategy.

“I will keep you informed if anything changes, Your Highness,” Jord murmured, preparing to leave.

“I tire of dedicating my time to a slave,” Laurent responded thinly, “now go run off to Aimeric and wait for further instruction.”

“Your Highness,”

“That’s an order, Jord,” Laurent snapped before stepping back into his tent and drawing the flap. How hard was it to get a man whose friend had turned out to be a traitor, and then slaughtered, to just relax? This was what he got for trying to be kind to people.

He sat heavily down on his pallet, rubbing his eyes. He couldn’t help but marvel at the cruelty of his circumstances. Any man. It could have been any man who finally came into Laurent’s life to help him, to aide him even in the face of his uncle’s tyranny. But it wasn’t any man. It was Damianos. Laurent felt hatred, hot as fire in his belly, at even the thought of the name. He didn’t know how to reconcile that with the Damen who had sat with him in that inn, all flashing grin and intelligent eyes. With the arms that had pulled Laurent to safety, without a second thought or moment of hesitation. How could they be the same? It felt like a sick joke that Laurent continued to walk into, a prank he was willingly playing on himself.  

Restless, Laurent looked around the tent for something to do while they waited. The Akielon had very little time to return before Laurent would start them back on the road. His tent felt empty, cold. His feet hurt. It had been worth it--running across the rooftops with the Alkielon like cats, adrenaline pumping through Laurent in a way that was exhilarating and strange.

He felt light, unbound. It was strange, sitting in a camp full of death and the smoldering remains of betrayal, that he could feel such a way. Was it victory? No, something else--something subtler, moving through Laurent’s skin like clouds across the sky.

_Freedom._

Away from the oppressive walls of Arles, the gilded prison that had had held Laurent captive for years, he felt freedom nipping at his heels. It was heady, distracting. With every breath, every brush of his tight shirt against his bare ribs, Laurent could feel it humming in his bones. Freedom. Perhaps he was still in his Uncle’s web, but he was no longer under his watchful eyes. All around him was the sky, the open road, men who were beginning to follow his lead, and--

_And Damianos._

Laurent set his lips in a thin line and stood up, hands trembling. He could feel his Uncle’s breath on his neck _You want what you shouldn’t, sweet nephew_ and his stomach was turning, nausea hitting him like a slap. He wished the slave wouldn’t come back. He needed him to return. He hoped for his death. He felt the absence of him like a physical pain.

_Astonishing,_ Laurent gasped as he gripped his table and bent over, _how I continue to make all the wrong choices._

Not like Damianos was a choice. He was a slave, an instrument Laurent was wielding, and someday even that would end. In death, perhaps, or something like submission.

Laurent thought of the pride in Damianos’ face, the absolute surety in which he held himself. There would be no submission, from either of them. Surely this--whatever _this_ was--would end much the way it began.

Laurent closed his eyes and saw Auguste’s corpse, his unseeing blue eyes, and felt his resolve harden.

The moment of white-hot grief and rage was suddenly doused, however, by the sound of hoofbeats. Laurent’s head swung up quickly, heart pounding. Mind temporarily empty for everything except the memory of Damianos pressed against the wall, Laurent waited. There was rustling outside, murmured talk, and then a soldier poked his head into the tent.

“Your Highness--” the man began, but Laurent did not wait for him to finish. He pushed past him, walking out into the crowd of men.

There was Damianos standing by his horse, dark curls unkempt and face smeared with blood and dirt. He looked exhausted. He looked alive. Laurent felt frozen to the spot, comfort and hatred mingling like acid in his stomach.

The Akielon’s eyes were roving across the camp until they landed on Laurent. When their eyes met, Damianos’ face relaxed. Something like relief flooded his expression and Laurent felt it pierce his chest. Was his slave, his brute, really so glad to see him?

“You’re alive,” Damianos breathed, voice rough and raw. Laurent swallowed, heavily. He thought Damianos hated him, was disgusted by him, even if he lusted after him. What did that mean? Most who met Laurent lusted for him. This, the naked relief in Damianos’ voice, was not lust.

“I’m alive,” Laurent replied quietly, never breaking eye contact Damen, “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”

It was a moment of truth that rang out in Laurent’s ears, he almost couldn’t believe he had said it. But, somehow, he had to. He needed Damianos to know.

“I came back,” Damen said, voice firm and eyes resolute. There seemed to be more behind those three words, Laurent seemed to teeter on the edge of them like they were a pit in the earth. Before he could respond, Jord’s sandy head appeared suddenly at Laurent’s left.

“You missed the excitement,” his captain chirped happily, “But you’re in time for the clean up. It’s over.”

Something spasmed across Damianos’ face. Fear? Dread? It was an expression Laurent was unused to seeing on the Akielon’s face. He felt ice in his veins.

“It’s not over,” Damianos said, and his voice was that of a commander. A leader.

Laurent realized suddenly, utterly, that regardless of what came out of Damianos’ mouth next Laurent felt secure in their ability to face it. Could Damianos’ presence truly have such an effect on him? Such a feeling of security?

It was blossoming between them, this feeling that Laurent was so afraid of. It was growing in Laurent’s heart just like his sense of freedom. This thing between him and Damianos.

Trust.


	4. Four

_ Hey, look up! _

_ You don't have to be a ghost, _

_ Here amongst the living. _

_ You are flesh and blood! _

_ And you deserve to be loved and you deserve what you are given. _

“Third Eye”, Florence + The Machine

_ *Dialogue and action replicated from C.S Pacat’s  _ Prince’s Gambit  _ Chapters Twelve & Thirteen _

 

As it turned out, trusting Damianos became vital to the next stage of Laurent’s plan. As they wandered the mountains together, skirting the edges of Akielon territory, Laurent couldn’t help but feel how vulnerable he was. He thought it was amusing that his brute surely thought Laurent didn’t know the extent of the danger he was in. He wondered if Damen was mulling it over--he was the rightful heir, the beloved prince of his people. He could sling Laurent over one muscled shoulder and find his nearest allies. 

_ I’m not dead, my brother is a fraud who dabbles in patricide, and oh by the way--here’s Laurent, the Crown Prince of Vere. He’ll make an excellent gambling piece with the Regent.  _

It could happen. Laurent could picture Damianos’ face as he returned to his people. His smile would be big, earnest, showing his white teeth and crinkling the corners of his eyes. Damen smiled around Laurent sometimes, more frequently now, but it was often guarded still. Laurent had seen him smile and laugh around Jord a few times, and had been shocked by the difference. As always, Damen’s emotions were plain on his face. 

_ I came back.  _

Laurent was so wrapped up in his own thoughts he almost screamed out loud when his horse bucked him off. It was only years of training and riding that allowed instincts to kick in, and Laurent fell into a practiced roll. He ended up flat on his back in a stream that was  shockingly cold, with an Akielon soldier above him holding a sword that was ready to cleave Laurent’s chest in two. 

_ So this is how it ends,  _ Laurent thought dimly as the water rushed over his body. It was a split-second stretched into infinity as Laurent thought bitterly about all he had yet to do but hopefully about Auguste. Perhaps this was how it was always supposed to be. The brothers, back together again. 

A terrible  _ thunk  _ and choking sound snapped Laurent out of his mental last rites. The Akielon soldier had a sword sticking out of his chest. It had appeared in an instant, as if sent by a divine force. The man fell to the ground, pinned by the weapon that had killed him, revealing a sweet blue sky wheeling above Laurent. 

_ He threw it,  _ Laurent realized dimly,  _ Damianos threw the sword.  _

As if summoned by his thoughts, Damen appeared at his side. Warm, solid, real. He smelled like campfire smoke and sweat and horse. Laurent felt something like awe thick in his throat. 

“I saw you fall,” Damen said and his voice was ragged, “Are you hurt?”

Laurent took a moment to consider. His body was cold and light with the shock, but it seemed fine. His right shoulder had taken the brunt of the fall but even that was little more than some bruising and soreness. He carefully pulled himself up into a sitting position, shifting his legs and ass out of the water as best he could. 

“No,” Laurent found he couldn’t take his eyes off Damen, “No. You got him. Before.” 

Damianos reached out brushed warm fingers against Laurent’s neck, his shoulder, his chest. Laurent realized, dully, he should mind that his murderous Akielon slave was touching him. He did not. Damen’s hands were grounding, gentle. He had just saved Laurent’s life. He had thrown a sword and miraculously saved Laurent. Even now, his face was screwed up in concern as he checked Laurent for injury. 

Laurent could not stop looking at him.  _ Why are you always saving me?  _

“Can you stand?” Damen seemed satisfied Laurent was unhurt. He sat back, letting his hands fall from Laurent. He ached for them to return. “It’s not safe for you here. Too many people want to kill you.” 

_ Including you, right?  _ Laurent thought hysterically,  _ you, my brother’s killer and enemy to my country. How can you not want to kill me? I’ve tried to kill you.  _

“Everyone to the South,” Laurent murmured, “but only half the people to the North.” 

Damen looked rueful as he held out his arm to help Laurent up. Laurent grasped it, stomach flipping uncomfortably as he drew close to Damianos and then stepped back again. 

There was the body, now, to attend to. 

“I’m sorry,” Laurent said quietly, and he wasn’t talking about the dead Akielon until he nodded at the corpse and swallowed, “We can’t leave him here.”

Damen frowned, “I’ll do it.” 

Laurent found himself walking over to check on his gelding, trying to get his body back under control. In the underbrush, Damen was taking care of things as he seemed to always be doing. 

Laurent rested his forehead on his gelding, feeling hot with uncertainty and anger and grief. Could you hate a man who had saved your life twice? 

 

It was a long ride on horseback. Laurent was wet and uncomfortable and he wished he was somewhere quiet and out of the sun so he could think. It was not an unpleasant experience, riding behind Damianos with his arms clasped around Damen’s middle. He knew there was a time when such a closeness would have been repugnant to him. He thought about their time in the baths, before the whipping, when Damen’s intimate proximity to Laurent had filled him with equal parts fear and disgust. It was not so now. 

Damianos had killed a fellow Akielon soldier today. One of his own men, one of his own people. He had killed to protect Laurent, to save his life. He had looked at Laurent with concern, with fear for his safety, as he had gently probed his body for injury. 

Laurent was not an emotional person. But he was logical. It was clear to him, now, that Damianos was not a man who betrayed people. He was a fine soldier. He had honor, and kindness. Laurent realized he hated him for it, answering his own earlier question. The new hate was different than the nameless, endless hate for Prince Damianos. Now it was personal, it felt as everything about Damen had been created to target Laurent’s weaknesses. 

He stared up at Damianos’ curls, the snatches of his face that were visible from behind. 

_ You killed my brother,  _ he thought,  _ you ruined me and turned me into this creature. You’ve saved my life. You’ve stood by me, even when you did not have to. I trust you. I hate you. I feel your absence when you are not near me. You took everything from me, I was so alone. _

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Damen asked, suddenly breaking the silence, “you’re unusually quiet back there.”

“Shut up,” Laurent hissed. Under his hands, he felt Damen’s chest shake with repressed laughter. 

He found he didn’t mind. 

 

Laurent was on watch, and he found it easy to stay awake. He was mulling over his earlier, fire-side conversation with Damianos. 

_ Is there something you want? _

_ Take off one of the wrist-cuffs? _

Laurent had seen the smile around those words, the teasing light in Damen’s eyes as he had said it, and he had felt a smirk flicker across his face in reply. When had it gotten so easy between them? Damianos’ whip scars were still being treated by Paschal, yet now Laurent couldn’t imagine wishing to inflict that kind of damage. He felt like a different person, staring back at the man he had been in Arles. Twin Laurents alike in dignity, yet one had twigs in his hair and had smiled at Damianos as they sat together around a fire. 

Again, Laurent had found unable to stop himself from probing Damianos. He wanted to know if this feeling, this strange trust and kinship he could feel burgeoning in his long-dormant heart was as stupid as it felt. 

_ It’s not naive to trust your family.  _

_ I promise you, it is. But I wonder, is it less naive than the moments when I find myself trusting a stranger, my barbarian enemy, whom I do not treat gently.  _

They had stared at each other for a long moment, and Laurent saw no hesitation in Damianos’ expression. Brutish, barbaric--he wanted to laugh at how those words clashed with Damen’s face. He had never seen someone so honest, so open, a face that was all curved lines and sweetness and large, trusting eyes.

He knew how Kastor had managed to subdue a man as powerful as Damianos. He was clever and cruel, and Damianos was clever and terribly trusting. Laurent knew there must never had been a shred of doubt in Damianos’ heart. 

Laurent pitied him. He knew all too well what it felt like to lose your belief in the goodness of the world, the surety of things like family. He, too, had been defiled. 

Damen let out a loud snore and Laurent jumped slightly. He glanced over at the Akielon’s sleeping figure, eyes following the hard line of his chest with something like hunger. 

He was distracted, but that was no excuse. He just hadn’t heard anything. 

There was sharp pain at the base of his head, and then everything went dark. When he regained consciousness he was standing up, hands held roughly behind his back, with crossbows surrounding him. 

_ Fuck,  _ Laurent swallowed heavily. The clansmen had found them too soon. Panic flooded him but he discarded it cooly, instead focusing on the man who was waking Damianos. 

Damianos woke quickly, face shifting instantly from the softness of sleep to the alertness of battle. Their eyes met. A kind of wordless understanding passed between them.

_ This is bad.  _

“Get up,” the man above Damianos ordered. Damen looked confused, and Laurent realized he couldn’t speak the clan’s language. He would not let a language barrier cost Damen his life.

“Get up,” Laurent repeated in Veretian. He was rewarded for this with his arm being twisted painfully up and his hair being pulled as his head was shoved down. He forced himself to stay still as his wrists were tied and a blindfold was shoved roughly over his eyes. In the darkness, he could not control his surprised jump as a gag was forced into his mouth. It tasted absolutely foul. 

Laurent was now in a terrible mood. This was not how it was supposed to go. He was now where he wanted to be--with the clan they had been hunting--but the earlier attack had taken them off course and sped things up in a way that could prove fatal. He did not know now if his female allies would show up when he needed them to. There was a chance, of course, but it was getting slimmer and slimmer. 

 

By the time they reached the camp, Laurent was sore and seething. He did not like being in a situation where he was relying on pure chance. His allied clan were fierce warriors and the negotiations had gone well--but would they think to look for Laurent and Damen even after they had missed their rendezvous? There was a chance he was alone in this, and Damianos could pay dearly for Laurent’s blunder. 

_ I am sorry, my brute,  _ Laurent thought just as he was thrown unceremoniously to the ground. The blindfold and gag had been removed, but his hands were tied. They were around a fire. This was not good.

He glanced at Damen as shifted up onto his knees. Damianos’ face was guarded, but not panicked. Like Laurent, he knew exactly what kind of situation they were in. Laurent felt steel in his chest--regardless of what transpired tonight, he would do everything in his power to ensure Damianos left unscathed. 

“This time, don’t get up,” Laurent said quietly to Damen as he stood up shakily. 

Damianos watched him, and his lips were pulled down into a frown. 

“Is this any way to treat guests?” Laurent called out to the clan leader, “My slave and I are simple travelers.” 

The leader turned, fire in his gaze, and started back towards Laurent, “You sit your pretty ass down,  _ now _ .”

Laurent tensed, “We mean you no harm--”

Wherever the obvious lie was going, no one would know. The leader slammed his knuckles into Laurent’s jaw, sending him staggering back as pain exploded in his head. 

_ Swallow it, swallow it,  _ Laurent instructed himself as the taste of copper filled his mouth and his ears started ringing. 

“You hit like a whore desperate for extra coin,” Laurent said with a bloody smirk, “Do your men know how soft your hands are? Or are you so ugly only you get to experience the joys of your touch?”

The men in question laughed at the barb, and the leader turned on them with a snarl. There was a moment where it could have gone Laurent’s way, but the chaos was quickly stopped short. Damen was looking at Laurent, begging him to let them act. Laurent shook his head slowly, minutely. Silence fell on the camp, and now Laurent was just a prisoner who had insulted the leader. 

The leader in question turned on Laurent and he felt sick with realization. The body language was so similar--how could this grubby mountain man suddenly resemble the Regent so well? Laurent wondered if, perhaps, it was just his mind playing tricks on him. It didn’t matter. The outcome was sure to be the same.

“Restrain him,” the leader spat. 

Rough hands grabbed Laurent’s shoulders and arms, holding his body in a taut line that exposed his front to the men around him. Laurent was trying very hard to keep his breath even. He was a boy, pressed against a wall in the shadows. He was a man, body slick with water. He knew what that look in the clan leader’s eyes meant. 

The man waltzed close, smiling tightly. Closer, closer, his breath was mingling with Laurent’s hair. 

“What was that about my hands?” The man whispered into Laurent’s scalp. Laurent swallowed. 

Carefully, the man rested his fingers on Laurent’s collarbone. Laurent’s stomach was in knots, his skin was hot and prickly. A tinny voice in his head was screaming, but above all he hoped he wouldn’t vomit. 

The man dragged his hand downward, over Laurent’s chest and stomach and finally onto his hips and Laurent considered closing his eyes as he knew that this would not be over quickly--

The sound of flesh hitting flesh broke the anticipation of the moment and the man’s hand disappeared from Laurent’s body. Laurent was breathing heavily but he was grateful as it disguised the gasp he could feel crawl out of his throat at the sight of Damianos, hands still tied, charging through the clansmen like they were children. 

In an instant, a man was dead. Then another. Damianos was like a vengeful god, moving so fast in the flickering fire light that he looked like a flame himself. His face was full of rage and Laurent felt breathless all of a sudden.

It took four men to finally bring Damianos to the ground. He was panting, and there was blood on his face. It was not his blood. 

_ Why?  _ Laurent felt equal parts awe and frustration. Damianos had just saved him from being publicly defiled, and now he was in grave danger. 

“This bitch’s slave has some nerve,” the clan leader spat, “how did he overpower you with tied hands?”

“We were surprised,” growled one of the men currently holding Damen down. 

“Kill him,” The leader said with a terribly air of finality. 

Damen was struggling. Laurent felt like the ground was falling out from under his feet. Suddenly, as painful as the earlier punch, Laurent realized he could not lose Damen. It was deeper than debt, this knowledge. No longer did Laurent feel like he was counting tallies-- _ Damianos has saved my life more than once, I have saved him once-- _ instead, he knew deep in his bones that he could not away from these mountains without Damen at his side. His brute, his barbarian. Auguste’s murderer, the architect of Laurent’s misery. He felt eternally trapped in the moment the leader’s hands had been on him and then suddenly off again. Somehow, his most hated enemy was always there when he needed them. 

“Stop,” Laurent said calmly as a man drew the sword meant for Damianos’ execution, “a fast death doesn’t hurt.”

The men looked at Laurent with familiar appraisal. A stone-cold bitch, a frigid sadist.  _ Go ahead,  _ Laurent smiled serenely,  _ marvel at the prince with no heart.  _

The clan leader was pulling Damen’s head up by his black curls and grinning said,“He says, ‘Fast death doesn’t hurt,’” before sinking a fist into Damen’s stomach. 

The beating was long and bloody. Laurent forced himself to watch every moment, considering it from a logical standpoint even as his stomach turned.

He had once watched Damianos whipped until he was on death’s door. He had taken great pleasure in the faces Damianos had made, listened for the sounds of a man experiencing life-changing pain. 

It was not so, now. 

Once, Laurent had soothed himself to sleep by imagining the slow and painful death of Prince Damianos. Now, watching him beaten bloody and bruised, Laurent searched for any feelings of satisfaction. He felt nauseous. He felt raw. He felt, distantly, that he was just grateful Damen was still alive. 

Mercifully, it was not long before the clan leader realized Damen was not going to be quickly beaten to death. With a few short commands, he instructed men to take Damen out into the outskirts and take care of him.

Relief washed over Laurent. If he knew anything with surety, it was that four mountain men would never be able to overpower Damianos. The fools. 

As Damen was being led away, the quiet in the camp allowed the sound Laurent had been listening for to finally come through. Hoofbeats. 

Laurent smirked, and the clan’s leader noticed.

“Why are you smiling, bitch?” The man spat, advancing once again on Laurent, “we’re not finished yet.”

“Oh,” Laurent’s voice was soft as silk, “I think you’ll find that we are.”

 

The ice was a cold, demanding weight in Laurent’s hand but he was hardly paying attention to it as he walked to his tent. 

It was such a small gesture, a hand on Laurent’s body one second and then the next gone. The clan leader’s breath hot and demanding. There. Then gone. Laurent wanted to pretend it meant nothing, it was forgettable. It was not. 

Damianos could not know how, long ago and once upon a time, Laurent had prayed to anyone who would listen for such a moment. Such a feeling. A hand, there. The hand, gone. In these imaginings, it was always Auguste in the doorway. Auguste, alive. Auguste, sword in hand. 

_ Get your hands off my brother.  _

It was not so. The dead stayed dead. 

_ I came back.  _

Damianos did not know, could never know. But he was there, anyway, bright eyes and righteous fury.

Laurent felt strange. He was used to feeling like a spectre, something insubstantial and cold. Eyes were on him, always, so he had made himself unknowable. He ghosted through the halls of Arles, watching the machinations of court with cool disinterest. He was not one of them. He was not a human, like them. 

Tonight he felt warm and his limbs felt heavy, solid and real. The pain in his cheek from the leader’s blow throbbed, and it too was a reminder that Laurent was alive. He had not died when Auguste had died. It was something he was only just now realizing. 

Laurent drew back the tent flap to find the ridiculous sight of Damen filling almost the entire space with his long limbs and broad shoulders. His giant animal. His brute. Lying on the furs with soft, heavy-lidded eyes and a lazy half-smile. 

Damen propped himself up on his elbow, and Laurent felt the old disgust rising in his throat. It wasn’t directed at Damen, but at himself. The lamp-lit glory of Damen’s curls and languid movements were all it took to speed Laurent’s pulse. Foolish, pitiful. Desiring this Akielon like some kind of peasant girl regarding a prince as he rode through a village. 

But Laurent could not stop himself from staring hungrily at Damen. In his defense, there was quite a lot of Damen to stare at currently. The only thing he was wearing was a leather loincloth. It left very little to the imagination. Once, Damen’s nudity had repulsed Laurent. Now, the endless expanses of olive skin and dark hair against the pale furs seemed full of possibility. 

Laurent forced himself to drag his eyes back to Damianos’ face, “Here’s to Vaskian hospitality.” 

“It’s a traditional garment,” Damianos sounded a little embarrassed, “All the men wear them.” 

Laurent was charmed by the defense in Damen’s voice. He dropped the cloak from around his shoulders, and he saw Damen’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of Laurent’s white bedclothes. 

“Mine has a little more fabric. Are you disappointed?” Laurent liked teasing Damen, liked this subtle back and forth between them as they tested the waters over and over. 

“I would be,” Damen was fighting a grin, “if the lamp wasn’t behind you.”

Laurent froze for a moment, realizing he had been a bit more exposed than he was intending. Oh, well. It was nothing Damianos hadn’t seen before. 

“Thank you for--” Damen gestured around the tent as Laurent sat back, resting on the heels of his hands. 

“Asserting droit de seigneur? How inflamed are you?” 

Damen blushed, once again embarrassed. Laurent was charmed. 

“Stop it. I didn’t drink the  _ hakesh.” _

Laurent smirked, “I’m not quite sure that’s what I asked. This is close quarters.” 

“Close enough to see your eyelashes,” Damen was smiling, relaxed and obviously pleased, “It’s lucky you do not have the size to breed great warriors.”

Laurent certainly felt small in this tent that seemed to be three-quarters Damen.

“My size is the usual,” he replied lightly, “It’s a problem of scale, standing next to you.” 

They were quiet for a moment, and Laurent could hear the drums coming from the campfire. He wondered if, perhaps, Damianos had wanted to be out there and Laurent had forced him into this. Doubt and confusion were warring in Laurent’s chest, and he decided to skirt the subject. 

“I realize that in my service you do not have a great deal of opportunity to pursue the usual--avenues for release. If you need to avail yourself of the coupling fire--”

Damen’s firm “No,” cut Laurent off before he could finish.

“I don’t want a woman,” Damen continued and the words traveled like a slow-burning fire up Laurent’s spine. 

“Sit up,” Laurent said quietly. 

Damen did, and suddenly the tent was wholly Damen. It was a heady sensation, being so dwarfed by him. Laurent waited for any fear, any trepidation. None came. 

He could feel Damen’s eyes on him as he gathered the ice from the cloak. 

“What are you--” Damen started, looking a little alarmed.

“Hold still,” Laurent said briskly. 

He pressed the ice to Damen’s bruised, vividly red side. Damen flinched, sucking in a gasp of air between his teeth.

“Were you expecting salve?” Laurent asked, eyes on his own pale hand against Damen’s skin, “They brought it for you from further up the slope.” 

Damen didn’t answer. Instead, they were quiet as his breath began to even out and deepen. Some of the tension went out of him, a silly look of relief crossing his face. Laurent frowned slightly. The beating looked painful, but it was different to be confronted by Damen’s pain in such an intimate way. 

“I told the clansmen to make it hurt,” Laurent said quietly, a confession that was unnecessary as Damen already knew that. Still, he had to say it. 

“It saved my life,” Damen replied firmly, leaving no room for doubt. 

“Since I can’t throw a sword,” Laurent said, the words somehow more vulnerable than he had intended. 

Damen gently took the ice from Laurent, and he was surprised to find he had still been holding it to Damen’s side. When had touching the Akielon become so easy? 

“You know by now that these were the same men who attacked Tarasis,” Laurent said, deciding it was time to veer their mood back into war and strategy, “Halvik and her riders will escort ten of them with us to Breteau, and from there to Ravenel, where I will use them to try to lever this border deadlock open. Halvik receives the rest of the men, and all of the weapons.” 

Damen nodded slowly, “So she has agreed to use the weapons raiding Akielos to the south, rather than anywhere inside your borders.” 

Clever, as usual. “Something like that.”

“And at Ravenel, you mean to expose your uncle as the sponsor of the attack.”

“Yes,” Laurent fidgeted with the furs under his fingers, “I think...things are about to become very dangerous.”

It was a warning. One he knew Damen was incapable of heeding. 

“About to become,” Damen snorted. 

“Touars is the one who needs convincing. If you hated Akielos more than anything, and you’d been given once chance to hit them as never before, what would stop you? Why would you put down your sword?” Laurent pressed. 

“I wouldn’t,” Damen shrugged with one shoulder, “Maybe if I was angrier at someone else.”

It was oddly on the nose that Laurent had no response. 

“This is not the way I planned to spend the eve of war,” Laurent said softly, and he meant it. He wanted Damen to know how unexpected he was. 

“WIth me in your bed?” Damen asked, cheeky as ever. 

“And in my confidences,” Laurent said, turning to look back at Damen. He felt so terribly alive in that moment that he could feel more words, damning confessions, on his tongue. He forced himself to swallow them, and decided it was time to go to sleep.

He laid down on the furs, eyes still on Damen. It was so easy here, in this little space that was just them. Laurent felt boneless, even as worry gnawed at his mind. He hadn’t felt this way in years. 

“Tomorrow will be a long day,” he said quietly, if only to get Damen to stop staring at him with those liquid eyes, “Thirty miles of mountains, with prisoners. We should sleep.” 

Damen didn’t nod or answer, but he put down the wet cloth that had held the ice and blew out the lamp. He laid down, so close to Laurent he could feel the heat emanating off of the Akielon’s body. 

They stayed there for a moment, wrapped up in each other’s gaze, before Laurent forced himself to look away and close his eyes. It was dangerous, what was happening between them. Disastrous, one of Laurent’s worst ideas to date.

He fell into an easy, dreamless sleep, with Damen’s soft breath and comforting warmth keeping the darkness of the night and the impending war at bay. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art by the wonderful JackyJango!   
> <3

_ And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be _

_ Right in front of me _

_ Talk some sense to me. _

“I Found”, Amber Run

 

“I can’t,” Damen’s voice was rough with desire and something akin to grief, “I can’t have this just for one night.” 

The words were a physical pain in Laurent’s chest. He embraced them, welcomed the sting. Damianos might have some kind of fantasy where whatever  _ this _ was ended well, but Laurent was no such fool. 

“One night and one morning,” Laurent said firmly before pushing Damen down into the bed. 

Damen’s breath huffed out in surprise, and his dark eyes were suddenly wide with arousal. In bed, like in everything else, Damen was honest. His desires were writ across his face, each emotion playing across his sweet mouth and eyes so plainly it was almost amusing. Laurent hadn’t expected that, hadn’t expected to be touched gently and explored. He thought Damen would be happy to flip him over, to have what he so clearly craved. He did not think he would feel so cherished. 

“I like this sight,” Damen breathed, running his hands up Laurent’s arms and down his chest, “You above me.”

“I am always above you,” Laurent said with a smirk. 

Damen shook his head ruefully, grinning in an easy and lopsided way. He wove his hands through Laurent’s hair and tugged his head down so they could kiss again. 

Last night, Laurent had felt like he was re-learning how his own body worked. He had kept throwing up his defenses, sure that at any moment the pain would start. The humiliation, the shame, the disgust. All the emotions he associated with sex. None came. 

Apart from the voice in the back of his head screaming that he was being fucked by Auguste’s murderer, of course. That was still impossible to forget. 

“Can you,” Damen breathed, breaking the kiss and forcing Laurent back into the present, “I mean, er,” 

“Can I go again?” Laurent asked with a raised eyebrow.

Damen flushed, “I just--the horse riding--”

Carefully, Laurent slid one leg over Damen and straddled his waist. He could feel Damen’s arousal under him, and it send waves of pleasurable anticipation through him. He felt looser this morning, more able to relinquish some of his rigid control. 

_ I’m going to leave tomorrow. I’m not coming back.  _

Damen squeezed Laurent’s thighs and gasped as Laurent began to rock gently back and forth, grinding on Damen’s cock. 

“I want you,” Damen moaned, eyelids fluttering, “right now, on top.”

Laurent had never done that before, though he could grasp the machinations of it. He liked teasing Damen, though, in this final morning. Last night, he had been perfunctory and then submissive. He wanted to linger, now, as the sun was just beginning to dye the dark sky violet and grey. 

“Don’t make demands,” Laurent murmured, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Damen’s jaw. 

Damen stilled, though he was still breathing heavily. He rested his hands on the square of Laurent’s back, a gentle and unassuming touch. He was stopping himself, allowing Laurent unhurried time to touch Damen or once again withdraw. 

Laurent kissed the intersection of Damen’s neck and jaw, just below the ear, and was gratified by Damen’s breath hitching. He went lower, brushing his lips against the thin, delicate skin of Damen’s neck. Damen tilted his head back and Laurent opened his mouth, biting gently down.

“ _ Fuck,”  _ Damen gasped loudly and Laurent sat up, head cocked to the side. 

“Interesting,” Laurent murmured, and Damen flushed. 

He leaned back down, this time to Damen’s other shoulder, and kissed his way down from Damen’s ear to his collarbone. Damen was an ocean under him, rolling and gasping and restlessly moving his hands. Laurent didn’t know it could be like this, ever. 

He bit down again, harder this time. 

“Lau--” Damen started moaning, then stopped quickly. 

Laurent sat up and splayed his hands over Damen’s chest, feeling sweat and heat. Damen’s curls were wild, sticking up in every direction and plastered against his forehead. His nightmare, his brute, his Akielon--undone by Laurent’s touch. It was deeply gratifying. 

Laurent shifted slightly, as if to get up, and the shattered look of disappointment on Damen’s face was enough to make Laurent laugh. 

“Did you know everything you think is plain on your face?” Laurent murmured as he grabbed the vial of oil from the windowsill. 

Damen looked suddenly guarded and Laurent could guess why. They both knew who Damen really was, but only Laurent knew that. He wondered how Damen felt now, bedding the brother of the prince he had killed. 

“What am I thinking now?” Damen finally said, quietly, taking the oil from Laurent. 

“You show me,” Laurent replied, smirking. 

Damen quickly oiled his fingers, and with some maneuvering, carefully circled Laurent’s opening. It was sore, and Laurent winced slightly. 

“Alright?” Damen asked gently, cupping Laurent’s face with his free hand. 

“Mm,” Laurent nodded tersely. 

Slowly, Damen slid his fingertip into Laurent. It sent sparks up Laurent’s spine, and he bit down on his bottom lip hard. Deeper, deeper, Damen was gentle and careful and Laurent was opening up all over again, once again finding himself wanting it like he never had before. 

A second finger, Laurent shifted his body to accommodate it and gasped slightly as Damen began rocking them back and forth. 

“Still alright?” Damen asked quietly, and his eyes were painfully tender. 

“Mm,” Laurent’s breath was already coming in gasps, “I’m ready.” 

Damen withdrew his fingers with a wet sound and began oiling himself. Laurent waited, hardly breathing, as he felt Damen’s cock slide under him. Never in a thousand years would Laurent have thought this would feel this good, this right. 

Damen guided his arousal into place and then took Laurent’s hips in his hands and gently pushed up. 

Laurent gasped, surprised by how different it felt in this position. It hurt for one long second, so much so that he was sure it showed on his face. 

“You control the pace,” Damen murmured, eyes trained on Laurent as he guided Laurent’s hips down. 

Experimentally, Laurent lowered himself further down onto Damen’s cock. He marveled slightly at the sensation, the sense of control as he chose how deep he wanted it or how quickly. He rose again, all pain quickly disappearing as pleasure and adrenaline took over.  

He worked himself into a careful rhythm, hands propped on Damen’s chest as he moved up, down, up, listening to Damen’s soft gasps and growls underneath him. Based on his reactions, Laurent seemed to have gotten a hang of this fairly quickly. 

Laurent was always a quick study. 

He sat up, taking his hands off Damen, and slowly slid down until he had taken all of Damen inside him. It was a distracting, thought-shattering sensation that he could hardly breathe around. 

“Fuck me,” he said quietly, watching Damen’s face react to the words.

Damen grabbed Laurent’s hips and shifted him slightly until he was-- _ Yes, there-- _ then began thrusting into Laurent in earnest. Laurent couldn’t help but gasp as Damen hit that spot inside him that sent fuzzy heat in waves through Laurent, blurring his thoughts and loosening his whole body. 

“There,” Laurent breathed, words spilling from his mouth involuntarily, “don’t stop.” 

“Fuck, fuck,” Damen growled, “it’s never--it’s never felt like this before, it’s so-- _ you’re _ so good,  _ fuck,”  _

Laurent came so hard he bent over, crumpling onto Damen’s chest as he felt Damen come inside him hot and throbbing. 

They stayed like that for a moment, and Laurent could feel Damen’s heart underneath his cheek. It was deeply intimate, and Laurent suddenly felt vulnerable and raw. 

Slowly, he slid off Damen and sat up, feeling sore and empty and fulfilled and warm. Damen smiled up at him, languid and sated. 

“You look a fool,” Laurent murmured, tracing one finger down Damen’s chest.

“I feel like one,” Damen said back, still smiling, “though I often feel that way around you.”

Laurent knew that, soon, it would be obvious just who the fool was. He got out of bed, getting water and toweling himself off.

When he returned, Damen was already nodding off.

“Don’t leave,” Damen said mushily, “until I’m up.”

He was asleep, and Laurent was frowning. The reality of their situation came crashing back, and Laurent knew it was time. It was over. The sun was rising, and Damen would be gone soon. 

He dressed himself, ran a comb through his hair. He would be presentable. When he left this room, there would be no evidence of what occurred here. He would leave Damianos in this room, shut the memory of him away here and never return to it. 

Perhaps one day they would meet again. Perhaps even as Kings, ruling over their neighboring countries. Laurent could see it in his mind. Damen would be wearing flowing robes and laurel, and his face would open up into a smile as Laurent entered his throne room. Or perhaps he would not smile, would cast down blame and betrayal. 

_ King Laurent, the upstart prince who had me whipped. The man without a heart. The stone-cold bitch, the perverted kin-fucker.  _

It would be so, surely. Or Damianos would die. Or Laurent would die.

Regardless, it would never be like this again. 

Laurent sat down next to Damen’s sleeping figure, watching him. He would be leaving soon. He would not say goodbye.

Gently, he brushed his fingers over Damen’s chest. Then his shoulders, his arms, his neck. Finally, his face. Rough with stubble, soft with sleep. Laurent rested his thumb on Damen’s cheekbone. 

_ You saved me, you were there for me. You have been so damnably right.  _ Laurent thought, allowing himself that moment of deep, strange gratitude.  _ But you cannot be by my side forever.   _

He leaned down and kissed Damen’s nose, his forehead, his eyelids, just a whisper of lips against skin. He forced himself to memorize the handsome curves of Damen’s face, his mouth, the lines of his neck. Those broad, dependable shoulders and capable hands. 

The anger would come later, the confusion, the hatred. The man under his hands was somehow both Damianos, Prince-Killer, and Damen, the man who had cradled Laurent in his arms and stood by him. 

How could two such men exist? Laurent, at least, was now able to stop asking himself that question. 

The anger would come later but the pain was  _ now,  _ incessant and loud. Was he, the heartless creature, the ghost of Arles, heartbroken? Over a murderer? Surely not. His chest hurt and his throat was tight and his eyes were hot but he would not linger a moment longer, here, in this space of safety and tenderness. 

“Goodbye, Damianos,” Laurent said in a whisper.

Damen stirred, but did not wake. 

One last look, one last look. Laurent tore his hands off Damen like he was a hot poker and stood up, forcing himself to march to the door. Open it. Close it.

Damianos behind him, in that room, alone. Forever just behind that door, so close but now untouchable. Laurent touched his throat, waiting until his pulse slowed and the nagging pain in his chest was pushed away. The anger came. He knew it would.  

Laurent took a deep breath and started down the stairs. 

  
  



	6. Six

_ Still I follow heartlines on your hand. _

_ And there’s fantasy, there’s fallacy, there’s tumbling stone. _

_ Echoes of a city that’s long overgrown. _

_ Your heart is the only place that I call home, _

_ I cannot be returned. _

“Heartlines”, Florence + The Machine

_ *Dialogue and action replicated from C.S Pacat’s  _ King’s Rising  _ Chapter Seven & Eight _

  


Laurent rolled the sapphire earring in his palm, over and over, watching as it threw blue sparks of light across his fingers. The stones were smooth as glass, up and down the lines of his palm. Up, down, blue, blue, blue against the white of his skin. 

The cobalt lights danced against the gold of the cuff on his wrist, swimming across the metal as Laurent tried to focus only on the sensation of the earring rolling on his hand. 

It distracted him from the pain in his shoulder, but not much.

It took his mind off the significance of the cuff on his wrist, but not much.  

_ I know who you are, Damianos.  _

Damen’s face, blanched of color and sagging with shock. Laurent was used to inflicting pain, to enjoying the lash of his own words. Somehow, the openness of Damen’s face had taken all the fun out of it. The olive skin around his eyes had grown taught and strange, and for one long, terrible moment Laurent wondered if Damianos was going to cry.

_ I needed a victory at Charcy. You provided it. It was worth enduring your fumbling attentions for that.  _

It had all come to the surface, then, as Laurent had hoped it never would. He had wanted to let Damen die in that little room, swaddled in blankets like a babe. Laurent had wanted to live in a world where there was only Damianos, Prince killer, his most hated enemy. There, in that tent, both men came crashing against Laurent like a wave. 

_ You knew who I was the night we made love.  _

Damen said it like it was a hopeful thing. The hurt in his face, deep and punishing, transformed slightly as he said it. As if he was getting a gift he had never dared hope to receive. 

_ Laurent, six years ago, when I fought Auguste, I-- _

_ Don’t you say his name. Don’t you ever say his name, you killed my brother.  _

Inevitable as the dawn, the thoughts of Auguste came. Sweet-faced, smiling Auguste. Their father’s pride and joy, the prince all of Vere cherished and loved. 

“One day Auguste will be the greatest King of Vere there ever was,” their father had said once, ruffling Auguste’s hair, “even greater than I!”

“Hush, father,” Auguste had chuckled, “you always talk such nonsense. You’re going to give me a fat head.”

“Your mother always said our boys were destined for greatness,” their father’s eyes softened as they always did when he spoke of Laurent’s mother, who had died when Laurent was ten, “I knew it would be true for you, Auguste.”

Such words should have hurt Laurent but they never did. He always knew it was true. He did not mind that Auguste was the future king, beloved both by the people of Vere and by their father. Laurent was content to love him and follow him around, basking in his light. 

Inevitable, also: the images of his father, dead with a stray arrow sticking from his neck. Auguste, dead, blue livery soaked red. 

Damianos. Damen.

_ He is here. We are the same. _

Laurent glared at the earring in his palm, closing his fingers over it. He was desperate to forget, somehow, everything that had transpired after that one night in Ravenel. He longed to convince himself it had been a mistake, but it had not been. It had been a calculated, deliberate move on Laurent’s part. It was Damianos who perhaps made a mistake, overcome with whatever it was he felt for Laurent.

Lust. Lust, mixed with the incredible incentive of hatred. 

Laurent told himself that, but he knew it was false. Damen’s face could not lie. The truth of the Akielon’s feelings for Laurent were writ across his face as plainly as a scroll. Perhaps that was the most painful thing, after all. 

At least, now, Damen was angry with him. Laurent could see it, a hard glint in the softness of Damen’s eyes. He was furious over Laurent’s current treatment of him, and perhaps finally confronting his anger that had been cultivated in Arles. 

_ It was a mistake,  _ Laurent wanted to say. But, that too, was a lie. None of Damen’s treatment in Arles had been a mistake at the time. 

He sat up and looked at the glint of cobalt through his fingers. It seemed, no matter what Laurent tried to do, those he wanted to protect were the ones he always ended up hurting. 

Slowly, Laurent slipped the earring back into his pocket. He felt something like dread, deep in his stomach, a feeling he associated with his childhood. 

Today, they rode for Marlas. 

***

He could feel Auguste, like a pebble in his boot, as he wandered through the fields of Marlas. A nagging presence, something that was firmly there, but so slight he had to pay attention to let it wash over him. 

This was the last place on earth Auguste had been alive. Laurent brushed his fingers over the ruins, taking deep breaths of the night air. He was so sure, in that moment, that if he turned around Auguste would be behind him.

_ Little brother! What are you doing out so late? Come on, if we hurry maybe we can catch the cook and have him make us some hot chocolate before bed.  _

A pain so fierce it was reminiscent of Laurent’s time with Govart had him suddenly breathless, pressing a hand to his chest. It was right here, in this sweet green field, that Laurent had lost Auguste forever. Laurent couldn’t breathe.

With jerky, sharp movements Laurent pulled at his lacings and stripped his jacket off. The cool night air hit his exposed flesh and brought him back to his senses, filling his air with lungs. Auguste was dead. He had been for years. Laurent had mourned and had wrapped himself in grief until it became steel, and he became--finally--untouchable. He was older, now. He was not a defenseless, unprotected child. 

Gently, Laurent laid his jacket out on a ruin and crawled onto it in an effort to preserve his trousers and his own ass from the cold. Above him the moon was a bright silver coin, and Laurent stared at it until his heart slowed and he was no longer drowning in fresh despair. 

“I met the man who killed you, Auguste,” Laurent murmured, drawing his fingers across the rough ruins beneath him, “the man who struck you down in this field.”

_ I hate him, you would hate him,  _ were all words that weighed down Laurent’s tongue. He wanted to say them, but they were lies. 

If Damianos and Auguste had met on this field as brothers in arms, as princes coming together in peace, Laurent knew they would have been fast friends. Both so damnably noble and selfless, both generous and kind. Two men who truly wanted the best for their people, down to the most common. As surely as Auguste had always been the born ruler, Damianos was a King in every respect. Out of three of them, this imagined trio, it was Laurent who was the outsider. 

But, of course, both Damianos and Auguste seemed to find the best in him. 

Anger, raw and aimless, surged through Laurent. He was sick of grief. He was so tired of hurting. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, Laurent heard the scrape of stone behind him. He turned to see Damianos, staring at him as if Laurent was the only person in the world. 

“Oh,” Laurent spat, “perfect.”

“I thought you might want,” Damen’s cursedly honest face was so raw in that moment that Laurent almost flinched--

“Want?” Laurent interrupted, and he could feel his temper rising. Damianos was both the last and the only person he wanted around him right now. He couldn’t take it. He wanted to hurt Damen, if only because it would punish them both. 

“A friend,” Damen’s voice was gentle, “If you’d prefer me to leave, I can.” 

“Why cavil?” Laurent’s blood was hot under his skin, “Let’s fuck.”

Damen actually did flinch, “That’s not what I meant.”

“It might not be what you meant, but it’s what you want,” Laurent felt the words leave him like lashes of a whip, even as their meaning burned him, “You want to fuck me.”

The night swirled around them, sweet as a summer evening could be. Laurent was acutely aware that they were standing in the ruins of something bigger than both of them, of an empire that had once been the sum of Akielos and Vere. Once together, now apart. Laurent felt the distance, could count the steps between him and Damianos. Would it be easy to close the gap, to once again exist in that warm junction where they ceased to be rival princes and became something new. Something bigger. Once together, now apart.

Damen still wasn’t speaking. Laurent wanted him to feel the same thing he did now, this hot, aching pain that would not lift its claws from Laurent’s heart.

“You’ve been thinking about it since Ravenel,” Laurent spat, “Since Nesson.” 

_ As I have been.  _

“I came because I thought you might want to talk,” Damen said softly, his words kind and gentle. It was even worse when he met Laurent’s temper with this... _ love.  _ Laurent wished he would rage at him instead. 

“Not particularly.”

The corners of Damen’s mouth tugged down, “About your brother.”

Burning, reckless anger was swelling up in Laurent like boiling water, “I never fucked my brother. That is incest.”

_ Kin-fucker, the heartless bitch of Vere. So cold he fucked his brother, then the man who killed him.  _ What a legacy Laurent was leaving. 

Damen blinked, shock registering on his face for a moment before a kind of exhaustion replaced it. 

“You’re right,” Damen said quietly, “I’ve been thinking about it since Ravenel. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.” 

Laurent felt a dull stab of triumph; he was finally getting the reaction he wanted.

“Why?” Laurent pretended he wasn’t staking his very life on the question, “Was I that good?” 

“No,” Damen looked ruefull, reminiscent in a way that was painful, “You fucked like a virgin half the time. The rest of the time--”

“Like I knew what to do?” Laurent said with a sneer. 

“Like you knew what you were used to.” Damen said in a strange voice, as if he wasn’t even quite sure what he was saying. 

The words hit Laurent like a slap, and he had to fight to stop stumbling back at the weight of them. The weight of memory, hands on his hips, his face against a pillow, fingers twined roughly in his hair--

Laurent sucked air in through his teeth, “I’m not certain I can take your particular brand of honesty just at this moment.” 

Damen looked suddenly mournful, “I don’t prefer sophistication in bed, if you were wondering.” 

“That’s right,” Laurent was desperate to regain footing in this conversation, “You like it simple.” 

Now it was Damen who looked as if he’d received a blow. His fingers fluttered lightly against his stomach and Laurent yearned for them in a way he had never felt before. The distance between them was both uncrossable and yet so negligent it felt as if Laurent was back in that tent in the mountains, surrounded by Damianos. 

“He died well,” Damen said quietly, voice strained with emotion, “He fought better than any man I’ve known. It was a fair fight, and he felt no pain. The end was quick.”

Tears filled Laurent’s eyes and his throat was thick when he spat out: “Like gutting a pig?” 

Damen’s stricken face was suddenly pushed to the bottom of Laurent’s priority list as he heard the sound of horses approaching, fast.

“You sent your men out to look for me too?” Laurent was suddenly livid, was there no  _ privacy  _ anymore out in this barbaric lands? 

“No,” Damen said quietly before instantly closing that distance between them and pushing Laurent behind the ruin. Once apart, now together.

Damen was warm and smelled like wine. He was pressing Laurent against the ruin, forcing him out of sight, dark eyes on edge. Commander Damianos back again, body primed to protect and fight. 

Laurent wanted to push him away but he could hear the horses approaching, hundreds of riders, and he sensed the threat. He felt a terrible mix of comfort and unease under Damen’s body like this, current anger mingling strangely with memories of Ravenel. Unbidden, the of Damen’s gentle, capable hands on Laurent’s body and his mouth on the skin of Laurent’s neck rose through his current murky rage.

_ Now is really not the time,  _ Laurent thought through clenched teeth as Damen’s hair tickled his forehead. 

The riders passed but Damen didn’t move. He was staring down at the ruin with a slightly vacant expression and Laurent could feel his heart thumping as Damen’s chest was pressed against him and it was too much, too much, Laurent didn’t know how he could put space between them again so he forced himself to shove Damen away before he would never be able to again.

He stumbled away from Damen and stood with his back to him, feeling his shoulders move shakily as he sucked breath in. He had never felt hunger like this before, as his body called out for Damen in a way that he felt in his bones. 

“I know you’re not cold,” Damen whispered hoarsely, reading Laurent’s mind as usual, “You weren’t cold when you ordered me tied to that post. You weren’t cold when you pushed me down on your bed.” 

Laurent took a deep breath. He knew what Damen wanted. It wasn’t forgiveness, but acceptance. Laurent’s acknowledgment that he had fucked Damianos of Akielos and enjoyed it, that he wanted to do it again. That it wasn’t just lust between them, and it never had been. Together, apart, together. That was what Damen wanted. 

“We need to leave,” Laurent said quietly, “We don’t know who those riders were, or how they got past our scouts.”

Apart.

“Laurent--” Damen’s voice was raw with desperation. 

Auguste, the thorn in Laurent’s re-growing heart, smiled in his memory.

“A fair fight?” Laurent turned, “No fight’s ever fair. Someone’s always stronger.” 

Silence fell as they clambered back onto their horses, their duty once again taking precedence. 

They left the ruins behind, but Laurent could still feel the rough stone at his back as they rode to Marlas. 

***

Laurent couldn’t count all the times he had dreamed of holding a knife to Damianos’ flesh. He had imagined all the countless ways he could kill the Akielon, had watched him whipped raw, beaten bloody, paraded in front of his enemies with a gold chain ‘twixt his nipples. He had humiliated Damen, scarred him, hit him, prayed for his death. All with Auguste’s face in his mind, the fading memory of his voice propelling Laurent forward. 

_ He was all I had.  _

Damen was looming above him, slick with sweat and gritty with sand. Laurent had lost track of how long they had fought in the indoor training arena, but he was sore and aching and raw with grief. It was easier to fight with their bodies than with their words, but now it seemed Laurent would have to speak again. 

“I know,” Laurent swallowed roughly, “that I was never good enough.”

It was a truth so basic to Laurent’s existence that it felt redundant to say out loud. 

Damen’s face softened, “Neither was your brother.”

The words could have been cruel, but they were not.

“You’re wrong,” the words came out like a dry sob, “He was--”

_ He was everything to me, to Vere. He was a hero. He was  _ my  _ hero. He was the best of all of us.  _

“What?” Damen asked quietly, eyes dark.

“Better than I am. He would have--” 

Laurent stopped, exhaustion getting the best of him all of a sudden. Laughing bitterly he closed his eyes, saying the impossible words: “Stopped you.” 

Laurent kept his eyes closed, willing the tears to stop. It was hard to control himself when he was this physically strained, but he swallowed until he could no longer feel the pressure of tears.

Something touched Laurent’s open palm and he opened his eyes to see Damen place a knife into Laurent’s hand.

Damen’s large hands closed over his, securing the knife between them, and then pulled it up until it was pressing into Damen’s stomach. Laurent’s heart was roaring in his ears. 

“Stop me,” Damen said quietly.  

A thousand imagined deaths, a thousand moments where Laurent relished in the thought and the sight of Damen in pain. Here he had the opportunity, a slim flash of steel in his fingers, to end it all. 

He could feel his rage, his hatred, all crystallizing in the point of the knife. For a long moment he longed to push it further, to split the olive flesh of Damen’s abdomen and feel the blood of the Akielon spilled. Finally, Auguste avenged. 

He was panting, staring down at Damen’s chest. He could remember what it felt against him, how he had placed his hands on it, how Damen’s heartbeat. The safety of it, the warmth. The way Damen’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. The way Damen never hesitated, not once, to risk everything for Laurent. 

If he killed Prince Damianos, then Damen would also die. 

“I know what that feels like,” Damen said quietly, and Laurent looked up at him and saw a kind of sadness in Damen’s eyes. 

How they hated each other, how they raged at each other--yet it all seemed pale in comparison to the hot flame of longing, of trust, of tenderness. 

“You’re unarmed,” Laurent said, but his voice broke and the lie was too obvious to even be a lie. 

Damen huffed out a breath and slipped his fingers down arm, to his elbow, as if he was drawing him closer. Laurent dropped the knife. He knew, deep down in his bones, nothing in this world--not even Auguste himself, walking through the door--could have compelled him to force it into Damen’s flesh. 

He moved without thinking, instinct taking over as Damen began leaning down and their breath started to mingle and he felt his stomach clench in anticipation and--

Damen was gone. He had pushed Laurent away, taken several steps back so quickly Laurent had felt the air of his passage. They stared at each other, and Laurent’s face felt hot as he breathed heavily. His body was screaming for Damen’s, and his hands felt useless at his side. Together, then apart. It was a kind of agony. 

“I wish,” Damen said, voice suddenly too loud for the moment. 

He fell silent, then turned and quickly left the arena. Laurent stood dumbfounded for a moment, waiting for his breath to return to normal. He couldn’t tell if he’d just been rejected, or if Damen had done them both a favor. 

Slowly, he sunk to his knees, staring down at the knife in the sawdust. It was a strange, terrifying thing to realize he could not kill Damianos. He did not wish him dead, not even now. The truth had come out, they were no longer friends. No longer slave and prince, existing in a world where whatever it was between them could at least last for awhile. He was Laurent of Vere and he was Damianos, the Akielon Prince-killer, enemy of his people. It should have changed everything. It had not. 

Laurent picked the knife up, turning it over in his hands. Nothing had changed, yet somehow everything had. But Damianos was still honorable and true, with wild black curls and a sweet smile and eyes that followed Laurent across a room with a gentleness he had never experienced before. Auguste was still dead. Laurent was alive.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent whispered.

He put the knife down, stood up, and left. He wondered if he looked over his shoulder he would see Auguste standing there with the abandoned knife, watching Laurent walk away from the vengeance that had been promised him. 

_ Forgive me, Auguste.  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Seven

_ I can only hope it's true enough _

_ That every little thing I do for love _

_ Redeems me from the moments I deem worthy _

_ Of the worst things that I've done _

_ And saves me from myself at times of envy _

_ When I'm missing everyone _

“Oh Glory”, Panic! At The Disco

_ *Dialogue and action are replicated from C.S Pacat’s  _ King’s Rising  _ Chapter Nine _

 

The day of the okton dawned hot and bright, and Laurent watched the sun rise from his room in Marlas. He had not slept. 

Laurent did not consider himself a changeable man. When life was about survival, it left you little time for choices. For easy, gentle change, for time to consider emotions or desires. Since Auguste’s dead his life had been honed down simply to: survive. He had been a speck in an ocean of darkness, a fly caught in a web greater than he had been able to imagine as a child. Laurent had to learn control, learn to repress  _ want  _ and focus only on  _ need.  _ He needed to stop the Regent. He needed to stay away from the Akielon border. He needed to avenge Auguste. He needed to eat and sleep and train.

But it was obvious, now, that he was changing despite his best efforts to stay on a razor-focused path. He could no longer control himself the way he once had, not with Damianos. He was beginning to realise that.  

There was a tentative knock on the door. Laurent shook himself and walked over to it, opening it reveal Isander, kneeling on the floor, with a sweet smile on his face.

“I have come to help you dress, Your Highness,” Isander said softly, “If you wish it.”

Laurent tried not to frown. He had found it entertaining to play around with Isander to make Damianos’ fume, but out of sight he did not want a slave to wait on him. He was deeply uncomfortable at the  _ willingness  _ of the Akielon slaves. He could say anything to Isander, make him do anything. 

Laurent knew what it felt like to have your own self wiped out and filled with someone else’s desires. 

“Rise, Isander,” Laurent said quietly, “you may help me dress.” 

Isander started with the ties around Laurent’s ankles and calves, lacing them with a gentle precision as Laurent watched him from above. 

“Have you ever seen an okton, Isander?” Laurent asked. 

Isander flushed, “No, Your Highness, but I have heard of them. I have heard that King Damianos is truly a marvel to behold at an okton.”

Laurent was sure that was true, “I can imagine.”

Isander began on Laurent’s other leg, fingers long and nimble. If Laurent squinted, he could imagine it was Damianos’ olive hands at his legs.

_ Attend me.  _

“What else do you know of King Damianos?” Laurent said quietly. 

Isander flushed a dark red, “Y-Your Highness, it is not a slave’s place to speak on the Exalted.” 

Laurent reached down and tipped up Isander’s chin with his knuckle, “I am a Prince, arent’t I? It will be our little secret.”

Isander’s eyes had gone soft with joy at Laurent’s touch, and Laurent was sick over it. He withdrew his hand carefully, deciding to not press the issue if Isander did not talk.

But Isander stood and began lacing Laurent’s jacket, a small smile on his face.

“I have heard much about King Damianos’ preferences for slaves,” he said gently, “But after he died we weren’t allowed to speak about him. But I remembered, back when I was young, how everyone wanted to be in his house. He was a kind man with a big appetite, people said. He would treat you well, he was never cruel nor neglectful. If you were chosen for him, you were guaranteed a life of luxury and of love.”

Laurent’s stomach was turning, and he felt an odd pressure in his throat, “I’m sure it was a devastating loss when Akielos thought him dead.”

A shadow passed over Isander’s face, “I--well, I am in...Dominus Nikandros’ house, as you know, and he--”

“You may speak plainly, Isander,” Laurent said softly, “I wish only to know more about my allies. I have spent many years in opposition to Akielos, now I must make up for that.” 

Isander frowned, fingers lingering at Laurent’s wrist. Slowly he lifted his hands to Laurent’s neck and began weaving the laces there, a deep v between his eyebrows.

“It was very dark in my household after King Damianos’ death,” Isander said quietly, “Dominus Nikandros was...I had never seen him so...”

Laurent was stunned to see tears spring to Isander’s eyes. Isander blinked them away furiously, obviously embaressed.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Isander bowed his head, “I am forgetting myself.”

Laurent took Isander’s wrists and gently moved them away from his jacket, “Surely you are allowed to cry in front of your masters?”

“We are taught to be joyful,” Isander’s voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper, “Please, Your Highness, do not let this dampen your spirits on this glorious day. I am shamed.”

“Isander,” Laurent wished, desperately, he could go back in time and stop himself from letting Isander into his room, “I do not...I am not familiar with the Akielon protocol for slaves. You have not misstepped in my eyes.” 

Isander smiled broadly, “You are a very kind master, Your Highness. I am glad you are here, with the King.”

“Why is that?” Laurent asked. 

“You two are...” Isander frowned, “I don’t know how to describe it. You two are good men. Good Kings. I feel as if...my people are in the right hands.”

Laurent was taken aback, “That is very kind of you to say, Isander.”

Isander flushed, “I have taken many liberties this morning, Your Highness. I am quite lucky you are so forgiving a master.”

Laurent felt queasy, “You have attended me well, Isander. Go, enjoy your morning.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Isander bowed deeply before leaving the room, cheeks still red. 

Laurent flopped back on his bed, sighing heavily. As always, his mind was filled with Damianos. He let himself picture him the way the Akielons saw him: the prince of true blood, the war hero, a man so strong and fierce he was godlike. Yet, all knew him as a man who was kind and fair. He was just as Auguste had been; a warrior, a king who was the son of kings. A good man, a smiling and gentle prince. 

It could have easily been Damianos who died that day, here on these fields. Two men, matched in so many ways, Auguste was strong and an incredible swordfighter. Laurent knew that. He had seen the scar on Damen’s chest from Auguste’s last, furious attack. Had one move been different, it would have been Damianos dead on the field and Auguste returning in glory. 

What a terrible exchange, how painful the circumstances. Auguste and Damen should have been friends. They could have made a bridge between Akielos and Vere. There would never have been need for the Regent. Kastor would not have had the allies needed for a coup. Instead, the wars of their fathers had destroyed both Auguste and Damianos. 

Laurent sat up, combing his fingers through his hair.

_ He could have stopped you. _

_ Stop me.  _

Damianos dead in a field, blood red as rubies against the snow. His smiling face still forever, the gentle light behind his brown eyes extinguished. Thinking about it hurt. Laurent shied away from the image, knowing it would have once brought him great pleasure. 

No, Laurent did not consider himself a very changeable man. Yet, he was changing. He was stronger now, so far away from Arles. The hatred and anger and grief that had consumed him there had shaped him, yet he was beginning to see he could become something different again. He could be reborn. If only for a little while. 

There was another knock on the door and Laurent groaned, “Enter.”

It was Jord, smiling cheekily, “You ready for this barbarian festival, Your Highness?”

Laurent snorted, “Don’t let our hosts hear you talking that way, Jord. You’ll probably have to honor dual someone.”

Jord scratched his chin, “They are very quick to draw swords for honor aren't they, these Akielons? It’s very different from home.” 

“In Arles,” Laurent got to his feet, “everything was done in the shadows. The Akielons are an honest people, after all.” 

Jord smiled faintly, “I suppose I’m rather fond of some of them, too, Your Highness.” 

“Well do us all a favor and keep it in your trousers for now, Jord,” Laurent clapped his shoulder, “Come, let’s go have some barbarian breakfast.” 

Jord gave him a familiar look  _ that cold-hearted bitch  _ but underneath it was softness. It seemed, wherever Laurent looked, things were changing. 

Laurent was grateful. He wanted to capture that feeling of heady freedom he had gotten as they had moved away from Arles. He wanted to be his own man, his own king. He had never let himself hope for such things before--hadn’t had much time to think of things outside of survival for so long now. 

He could do this. He could be something more than what the Regent had made him, 

Jord was chattering excitedly next to him, Laurent was glad for the company. He was exhausted, utterly worn out from the fight with Damen the night before and then the long hours of not sleeping. Somehow, though, he felt very light. As if he’d finally come to a decision. 

“I think I have a shot in some of these games, Your Highness,” Jord was saying as they descended the stairs, “I think they’re not counting on us Veretians, but I know we have some tricks up our sleeves. I promise, the Guard won’t let you down, Your Highness.”

Laurent forced himself not to smile, “I shall hold you to that.”

The day felt full of possibility. 

***

The possibility turned out to be a heat so intense it was gnawing at Laurent’s steadfast desire to stay in Veretian clothing. 

He could hear his fellow pale Veretians muttering beside him as the games progressed, and they all seemed more or less in the same position as he. He was glad Paschal was waiting around to sew up any fallen warriors, as it the physician may need to revive them from heat exhaustion. 

He had run into Nikandros on his way to the games and the man had smiled with eyes so full of dislike it was almost comical.

“I’m sure you’ll be enjoying this wonderful weather today, Your Highness. The okton is always best enjoyed under the sun.”  
“I’m sure I will,” Laurent had smiled pleasantly, “I am very much looking forward to the famed Akielon brute strength.” 

Mercifully, a tent had been erected over the thrones which at least kept the Veretians out of the sun. Laurent was focused on two things: one, don’t look at Damianos. Two, don’t sweat. Both were more or less successful. 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Damen’s bare legs, relaxed against the bulk of his throne. When the gentle breeze blew, Damen’s curls danced. Laurent could feel them under his hands, their softness and pliability. He swallowed, carefully focusing on the games in front of him. 

They dragged on. Laurent thought, under different circumstances, he would probably have enjoyed the display of skill more. But he was too hot, too itchy in his clothes, and too uncomfortable being fanned by slaves. He was exhausted, sore, and couldn’t stop the niggling voice in his brain from urging him to look up at Damen. Say something to him. He wanted to hear Damianos’ thoughts on the games, wanted to talk about the players, the matches. He missed Damianos’ quiet wisdom and cheeky sense of humor, missed their quick back and forth as they both aped dislike.

More than all of that, Laurent wanted to go back to his room and get out of the heat. 

Laurent’s interest was piqued slightly when two incredibly well-muscled and very much naked men walked onto the field.

Laurent’s eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch. This was more like home. He was reminded, strongly, of the simulated rapes his citizens so enjoyed in Arles. Surely, after Damianos’ disgust over that practice, this was something different? 

The men began oiling themselves down. They were  _ very  _ naked. Laurent suddenly found the day had gotten even warmer. 

The two men took hold of each other’s shoulders and began wrestling. It was a choreographed art, an athletic act, nothing like the tussling of boys in the grass Laurent associated wrestling with. He was impressed. He found it was hard to find something specific to focus on with so much bare, shining skin and sculpted muscle. 

The darker haired man finally got his opponent against the ground long enough that the crowd began clapping. He emerged the victor, and Laurent’s eyes darted appreciatively up and down his body. 

The youth--Laurent thought his name was Pallas, or something like that--came bounding up to the thrones, grinning and obviously pleased with himself. 

He knelt in front of Damen, and Laurent felt a frown forming at the corners of his mouth. 

“If it please my lords and ladies,” the man said brightly, “I claim the honor of combat with the King.”

Laurent had to bite his teeth together, viciously, as his first response was to turn to Damen and say:  _ No.  _ Gone were the days when Laurent could order Damen around, but in that moment he yearned for them. 

What was this fierce burning in his chest, this sourness in his throat? Laurent watched Damen stand, smiling, and lift his hand to the pin that held his tunic up. 

_ I am jealous,  _ Laurent winced at the truth of the thought,  _ I do not want Damianos to touch this naked man. _

Laurent realized suddenly in that moment that the thought of Damianos touching anyone, loving anyone, fucking anyone else was utterly repugnant. The image of Damen leaning over some faceless woman, speaking softly to her as he ran his hands down her legs, made Laurent so furious his ears started ringing. The breath was going out of him, even as Damen’s tunic fell and he stepped out to meet Pallas completely naked. 

_ If he has anyone else,  _ Laurent took a deep breath,  _ if he  _ wants  _ anyone else, I’d want them dead.  _

He had never felt possessiveness like this before. It felt like a close cousin to the rage that frequently overwhelmed Laurent, but somehow also more  _ demanding.  _

As if it wasn’t taking all of Laurent’s self-control to stay on top of his temper, he languidly shifted in his seat and rested his chin on his knuckles.

Damen began oiling himself up and Laurent’s eyelashes fluttered involuntarily--it was, in his defense, quite a sight. There was just a  _ lot  _ of shiny, olive skin on display and rippling muscles and Damen was grinning as Pallas advanced on him. 

This wrestling match seemed to contain a lot more clutching and grabbing then the first, and Laurent found himself drumming his fingers on his throne. He was quite used to public nakedness, and the match wasn’t even sexual, but Laurent still found himself praying for it to end. It was very... _ challenging _ ...to watch Damen in this state and not think about that night--that morning--Damen’s in and around him, enveloping him. 

Damen tossed his head back, curls bouncing, as he did something tricky with his knees and suddenly Pallas was on the ground. Damen looked pleased, flushed with exertion, in his element completely. 

Pallas struggled for a moment before match was called. Laurent watched him stand up, grinning sheepishly, and had to remind himself that he could  _ not  _ have violence inflicted on this innocent Akielon. 

Damen was cleaned up and toweled off, and Laurent was glad when he returned to the dias to get re-dressed. He found he couldn’t tear his eyes off Damen’s body, though, now that he had been so forcefully reminded what lay beneath those breezy chitons. 

“Good fight,” Damen said cheerfully, sitting back down. He seemed to notice Laurent’s strained expression, though, as his eyebrows knit together and he asked, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Laurent said stiffly, and he finally looked away. 

It was time for the main event, it seemed. The okton. Laurent hoped that whatever the okton was, it would be distracting enough to make him forget the sight of Damianos naked and oiled under the sun. 

Laurent was preparing to rest as still as possible to avoid overheating when Nikandros, as persistent as one of the flies buzzing around the Veretians currently, came up to the Damianos.

“I’m going to inspect the spears that will be used in the okton,” Nikandros said quietly, “I would be honored if you would join me.”

Damen agreed with a smile, and the two men left without a backward glance at Laurent. He sat in his throne, simmering both internally and externally. Everything had been so much simpler when Damianos was pretending to be a slave, and Laurent was pretending to believe him, and in that space they had created a fantasy world where they could want each other without the weight of kingdoms and dead brothers on their shoulders. In that place, Laurent could command Damianos with just a word.

In that world, Laurent never would have let himself long for Damen’s attention like this or allowed himself these feelings of jealousy and possessiveness.  He had told himself that, if anything, their relationship would end in one ill-advised tryst. He had told himself that was all he wanted. 

Laurent rolled his shoulders back, testing the words in his head:  _ I want Damianos, all of him. I want him to want only me. I know not whether we will both survive this war, even survive this week, but I want him. He killed Auguste. I do not want him dead. I lo-- _

Laurent cut himself off quickly, the words too terrible to give even a voice inside his mind. He couldn’t think such things. He couldn’t let himself get so weak, so vulnerable. 

Laurent’s eyes flickered to his throne’s twin. There was no sign of Damianos. This was agony. 

“I am going to go check on my fellow King,” Laurent stood suddenly. 

No one seemed particularly bothered by this announcement, so Laurent set off at once. It felt good to move again, and a light breeze made to dry the sweat on Laurent’s check and ruffle his damp hair. 

He found the tent that housed the okton’s weaponry, and paused outside its opening. Nikandros was standing, staring aghast and Damianos’ back with his hands resting against Damen’s shoulder blades, and all the pieces fell into place. 

Nikandros had seen the scars when Damen had been wrestling. Of course. Laurent hadn’t realized Damen was putting them on display for all to see. A foolish oversight on Laurent’s part, he had been distracted and not examining the situation properly. Nikandros had spirited away Damen in order to get a closer look at Damen’s back and confront him about it. All so simple, so obvious. If only Laurent had thought it through. 

“Who did this to you?” Nikandros said roughly, and his voice was so raw with grief and disgust that Laurent almost took a step backwards. Instead, he forced his stance into one of relaxed disinterest.

“I did,” Laurent said loudly, watching with satisfaction as Damen’s head whipped around to take him in. 

Two olive-skinned faces, one filled with trepidation and the other with unchecked rage. Wonderful.

“I meant to kill him, but my uncle wouldn’t let me.” Laurent said softly, realizing as he said it outloud it was probably the only kindness his uncle had ever done him. 

Nikandros staggered towards him, hand already at his sword, before Damen grabbed his arm. 

How best to cut the tension? 

“He sucked my cock too,” Laurent smiled sweetly. 

It worked. Nikandros looked a bull ready to gore its next victim. 

“Exalted,” he spat out, “I beg permission to challenge the Prince of Vere to a duel of honor for the insult that he has done to you.” 

“Denied,” Damen said with an exasperated frown.

“You see,” Laurent shrugged, “He has forgiven me for the small matter of the whip. I have forgiven him for the small matter of killing my brother. All praise the alliance.” 

It was the first time he had said it out loud, or even given word to the thought.  _ Forgiveness.  _ Laurent meant it to come off glib in the moment, but he realized suddenly how much weight the words had. 

Nikandros looked as if Laurent was somehow misunderstanding the point, “ _ You flayed the skin from his back.” _

Laurent was very pointedly not looking at Damen right now.

“Not personally,” he said lightly, “I just watched while I had my man do it.”

Nikandros’ voice was raw, and Laurent was reminded of how Isander had wept at the memory of his master’s grief after Damianos’ “death”. 

“How many lashes was it?” Nikandros was close to shouting, “FIfty? One hundred? He might have died!”

Nikandros was so angry he was getting repetitive. Laurent was itching for him to leave. 

“Yes, that was the idea,” Laurent responded softly. 

Nikandros stepped forward again, obviously ready to forgo the fate of his country if it meant throttling Laurent. Damen stopped him again, a firm hand on his arm. 

“That’s enough,” Damen said with the voice of a King, “Leave us now.  _ Now  _ Nikandros.” 

Nikandros stormed past Laurent without a backwards glance at Damen. As he left the tent, Laurent heard him whisper murderously: “ _ Blondes!”  _

Damen faced Laurent now, practically naked, “Why would you do that? He’ll defect.” 

“He’s not going to defect,” Laurent rolled his eyes, “he is your most loyal servant.” 

Damen looked suddenly exhausted, “So you push him to breaking point?” 

“Should I have told him I didn’t enjoy it?” Laurent almost spat the words, “But I did enjoy it. I liked it most near the end, when you broke down.” 

Damen seemed to barely hear him. He was staring at Laurent, dark eyes intense and searching. They space between them in the tent felt charged, and Laurent was suddenly overly warm again. 

“What are you doing here?” Damen asked slowly, eyes never leaving Laurent’s face. 

Laurent swallowed. Damen was getting quicker. 

“I came to collect you,” Laurent said casually, “Nikandros was taking too long.”

Damen looked almost rueful, “You didn’t have to come here. You could have sent a messenger.” 

Laurent was so caught in the lie he couldn’t help his next involuntary action. His eyes slipped, dancing over Damen’s broad shoulder to the mirror behind. 

He had not seen Damen’s back in broad daylight, so exposed, since the whipping. When they had fucked in Ravenel it had been dark and Laurent hadn’t really been at the right angle to examine Damen’s backside. 

The white scars crisscrossed Damen’s back like long, reaching fingers. Laurent was lost in the pattern of them, the overlapping rays cutting across olive skin. Each pale scar represented a moment of mind-numbing pain. Laurent felt sick, suddenly, and his vision seemed to be narrowing. 

He looked back at Damen’s face and knew his own expression betrayed him. There was no anger in Damen’s face, only a tender kind of regret. It hurt more. Laurent wished he would hit him. 

“Admiring your handiwork?” Damen said quietly and Laurent felt the words like a slap. 

“You’re due back in the stands,” Laurent said through gritted teeth.

Some of the old light returned to Damen’s eyes, “I’ll join you after I’ve dressed. Unless you want to step closer. You can help stick in the pin.”

Laurent flushed, “Do it yourself.” 

He spun on his heel and hurried away from the tent. He hadn’t been confronted with the reality of the whipping before--seeing it, being forced to imagine the pain of it was all very different from thinking about it, talking about it. 

He could remember it all, of course, but to see the permanence of it against Damen’s skin was...difficult. 

Laurent was not a changeable man, but he was changing. Yet, on the flesh of the man who had changed him, was an eternal reminder of the past.

_ Damn Nikandros,  _ Laurent seethed. 

He knew, of course, who he was really angry at. 

***

_ Laurent was running through the halls of Arles, chasing after Auguste and laughing. He was getting faster, he would catch his brother this time.  _

_ He pushed open the doors of the front hall and found himself in the woods of Marlas. Auguste was tied to a tree, as Damen had been tied to the whipping post.  _

_ Auguste’s back was bleeding, raw, an alien thing. He was screaming in pain and Laurent was screaming too, hands covered in his brother’s blood. _

_ “This is your doing!” His uncle hissed above him, smile gleeful, “You are ruined! You destroy everything you touch!” _

_ “NO,” Laurent yelled, hysterical  _

_ Desperately, he untied his brother and rolled him over. He had a spear sticking out of his chest now, and Laurent knew he had missed during the okton and hit him instead my fault my fault and then Auguste was Damianos. _

_ “Damen,” Laurent cried, hands fluttering at the spear, “Damen, wait--I didn’t want--” _

_ Damen reached out and took Laurent’s hand, squeezing it. For a long, sweet moment, they stared at each other and Damen was smiling softy and his eyes were gentle and Laurent knew it would be fine because Damen was here, Damen cared-- _

_ Then Damen grabbed Laurent’s hand and forced him to push the spear in deeper and his eyes went blank, dead. _

Laurent awoke in a cold sweat, a scream tangled in his throat. 

He sat up swiftly then stifled a groan as his head pounded.  _ Fuck.  _ He had gotten very drunk last night. 

Slowly, the events of the night dripped back into place but Laurent knew there were gaps. At a certain point, his memory became very fuzzy. He remembered Damen’s hands and warm breath and little more. 

_ Fuck.  _

The nightmare was still raw and bleeding in Laurent’s mind. He buried his face in his hands, trying to breathe deeply through the pain in his head. 

_ You destroy everything you touch.  _

Laurent swallowed. He had seen his own ruinous tendencies written across Damen’s back, and felt sick over it. 

Slowly, he laid back down and closed his eyes.

He could no sooner change the past than Damen could. This was what stood between them--dead brothers and whippings, years of hate. Blood on both their hands, after all. 

Yet there, nestled among shadows, was Damen's bright smile. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Eight

_I knew that look dear_

_Eyes always seeking_

_Was there in someone_

_That dug long ago_

_So I will not ask you_

_Why you were creeping_

_In some sad way, I already know_

“Like Real People Do”, Hozier

( _Dialogue and action replicated from Chapter Sixteen of_ C.S. Pacat’s _King’s Rising)_

 

Laurent thought of himself of rather an expert when it came to making hard choices. He liked to consider himself something of a strategist, simply surveying his options and creating the best course of action based on what he was presented with. Logical. Bloodless. No room for error, nor for emotion.

He did not feel like a cold, detached strategist as he crept away from the cart that had previously housed Jokaste.

He was used to hard choices being a complicated thing to digest, sometimes, or even a painful dose of reality he would have to chew over for a few days. This, though, felt very different.

As he approached Damen’s sleeping figure, it felt as if some living thing was trying to claw its way out of his chest.

_This is the end, as I knew it would be,_ he told himself firmly as he stretched out again beside Damen, _we had our time and now it will come to an end. We got more than I ever thought we would._

He wished it felt like that. As if all the stolen time with Damen had filled up something inside him, made this easy. Instead, it left him starving for more. For everything. For always.

Laurent reached a hand out and rested it on Damen’s chest. Damen didn’t stir, and Laurent smiled ruefully. He had Damianos, the greatest warrior of their age, at his mercy in his sleep. How things had changed, how incredibly unexpected the end of Laurent’s plan had turned out to be.

Cautiously, Laurent inched closer to Damen and gently laid his head down on Damen’s broad shoulder.

_Our last night together._

The thought quirked Laurent’s mouth down into a frown and, damn it all, his throat was tightening and he could feel hot tears gathering _fuck it all--_

Laurent had long outgrown tears, as he had found they solved nothing. Yet, here they came, inking down his cheeks in traitorous streaks.

Dully, he wondered what Damen would think if he woke up to find Laurent snotty and teary all over his shoulder. For a moment, Laurent allowed himself to imagine being gathered gently in Damen’s arms as he kissed Laurent’s wet face.

_Such foolishness,_ Laurent thought, only with a trace of bitterness, as he lightly traced his fingers up and down Damen’s chest, _look what you’ve done to me, you brute._

One night, and nothing more.

Laurent took a deep, steadying breath and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. He had a long day ahead of him.

Beneath him, Damen’s warm chest rose and fell softly. Laurent listened to his gentle, even breathing until unconsciousness finally claimed him.  

***

The Kingsmeet was far more beautiful than Laurent was expecting. It was all gleaming stone and emerald grass, sweet flowers swaying gently. It _felt_ like a place of peace. Laurent yearned to leave it that way.

“Nikandros served here, for two years,” Damen said quietly, snapping Laurent from his misery.

Laurent looked up at Damen, noting the furrow in his brow, “You were jealous.”

“My father said that I had to learn to lead, not to follow,” Damen’s voice was tinged with grief.

“He was right,” Laurent said softly, “You’re a king in a place of kings.”

Damen rolled his shoulders slightly, and some of the sadness left his eyes. Here, in this place of majesty and power, he was still the most commanding thing around.

Slowly, almost as if they were there for a summer stroll, they made their way through the Kingsmeet. Damen pointed out the different kings and queens as they passed through the hall dedicated to them, and Laurent was pleased to see this different side of Damen.

It was almost easy to forget what they were there for. Almost.

As inevitable as death, they finally came their destination.

There, as inevitable as death but not nearly as welcome, was Laurent’s uncle.

Damen’s reaction was immediate. Hie hand went to his sword, as his whole body shifted back into a defensive stance. Laurent willed him to calm down.

The Regent walked casually closer to them, as if this was his own throne room. He was dressed as garishly as always, and Laurent could feel the bile beginning to rise in his throat. He could feel the walls of his childhood closing in on him again, swallowing him.

“Laurent,” his uncle’s lips curled around the word, “you have caused me a great deal of trouble.”

Laurent’s whole body was screaming at him to run, to hide, and it took every ounce of his control to keep himself in check. In his pocket, he could feel Nicaise’s sapphire earring like all the weight of the world.

“Have I?” Laurent forced his voice to sound cool and disinterested, “Oh, that’s right. You had to replace a bed boy. Don’t blame me too much. He would have been too old for you this year anyway.”

The Regent’s nostrils flared slightly, the only sign he was angry. Laurent took it as a small victory.

“These petulant remarks have never suited you. The mannerisms of a boy sit so unattractively on a man,” Laurent swallowed heavily, “You know, Nicaise really thought you would help him. He didn’t know your nature, that you’d abandon a boy to treason and death out of petty spite. Or was there some other reason you killed him?”

Laurent could feel Damen tensing beside him, and he tried to focus on the solidness of Damen’s presence as he pressed forward.

“Your bought whore?” Laurent’s fingers brushed the sapphire earring, “I didn’t think anyone would miss him.”

“He’s been replaced,” his uncle said with a cold smile.

“I thought he would be,” Laurent’s voice was a touch too raw for his own liking, “You cut his head off. It makes it a little difficult for him to suck your cock.”

Flared nostrils, again. Realizing he was losing the battle against Laurent, his uncle turned his attention to Damen.

“I assume whatever tawdry pleasure you get from in bed leads you to overlook his nature. After all, you are an Akielon. There must be satisfaction to be had in getting the Prince of Vere under you. He is unpleasant, but that would barely register when you are rutting.”

Damen’s face visibly paled, but his voice was unshaken as he replied, “You’re alone. You can’t use weapons. You don’t have men. You may have taken us by surprise, but that will gain you nothing. Your words are meaningless.”

Laurent’s stomach sank slightly as he was delight dance across his uncle’s face. It was time for the reckoning, now. As inevitable as death.

“By surprise? You are refreshingly artless,” the Regent smiled, “Laurent was expecting me. He is here to give himself up for the child.”

“Laurent isn’t here to give himself up,” Damen almost snarled, and the raw disbelief in his voice was enough to drain Laurent of blood.

He could feel Damen’s gaze on him, a heavyweight, and he almost crumpled under it. The moment stretched on forever, and Laurent kept his eyes steady on the ground.

“No,” Damen breathed, the pain in that single word struck Laurent like a sword.

“My nephew is predictable,” the Regent continued, obviously revelling in Laurent’s undoing, “He has freed Jokaste, because he knows that I would never trade a tactical advantage for a whore. And he has come here to give himself up for the child. He doesn’t even care whose child it is. He just knows it’s in danger, and that you’ll never fight me while I have it. He’s found the way to ensure that in the end, you will win: give himself up, in exchange for your child’s life.”

It all sounded much less noble coming from the Regent, but he certainly had the long and short of it. Laurent stood as still as possible, withering under Damen’s silent disbelief.

He thought, _at least the worst is over._

The Regent said, “But that exchange doesn’t interest me, nephew.”

Time seemed to freeze for a moment, as Laurent rapidly digested the words. His carefully laid game of strategy quickly dissolved, allowing him to clearly see he had stepped into a completely different game. Everything was different now. He had to act, fast.

“It’s a trap,” Laurent spoke quickly, keeping his voice controlled, “You can’t listen to him. We need to go.”

The Regent looked very pleased, and Laurent’ knew he had guessed correctly that Laurent had figured it out, “But I am here alone.”

“Damen,” Laurent’s voice was shrill with barely suppressed panic, “Get out.”

“No,” Damen shook his head, “He’s just one man.”

“Damen,” Laurent hissed.

“No,” Damen turned to face the Regent, a king in every sense of the word. He had no idea what was coming.

“I’m the one he’s come here to make a deal with,” Damen said confidently, and Laurent was flooded with pure, uncut irritation. Why had did his beloved have to be someone who had no ability whatsoever to detect deception?

“Tell me your terms for the child,” Damen said.

“Oh,” Laurent’s uncle scoffed, “No. The child is not on offer. I’m sorry, were you thinking of making a grand gesture? I prefer to keep him. No, I am here for my nephew. He is going to stand trial before the Council. Then he will die for his crimes. I don’t need to negotiate, or give up the child. Laurent is going to get down on his knees and beg me to take him. Aren’t you, Laurent?”

_Get on your knees, sweet Laurent. That’s a boy. Easy, now._

“Damen,” Laurent’s voice was ice, “I told you to get out.”

“Laurent will _never_ kneel to you,” Damen spat, and because he was Damen he moved until he was standing between Laurent and the Regent. It was a gesture that sent great, aching waves of tenderness through Laurent’s body.

The Regent’s lip curled, “You don’t think so?”

“Damen,” Laurent said again, blood pounding in his ears.

“He wants you to leave,” his uncle tilted his head, “Aren’t your curious why?”

_What a good boy you are, Laurent. So obedient._

“ _Damen,”_ Laurent cried out, and he could feel his uncle’s next words coming before they had even left his mouth.

“He has knelt for me.”

Damen didn’t seem to hear the words at first. Slowly, he turned to look at Laurent. Their eyes met, and Laurent could feel that his face was bright red with shame and fear.

“I probably should have turned him away,” the Regent’s voice was disgustingly fond, “but who can resist when a boy with a face like that asks you to stay with him? He was so lonely after his brother died. ‘Uncle, don’t leave me alone--’”

The Regent’s simpering impression of Laurent was cut short with Damen cried out a terrible, hoarse war cry. Drawing his sword, he flew at the Regent as Laurent knew he would.

“Damen, no!” Laurent yelled, attempting to leap forward. He found himself suddenly restrained by soldiers.

Damen was like a god as he moved towards the Regent, sword cutting swaths through the white-clad men that rushed at him. Human blows seemed not to touch him, and Laurent could not tear his eyes away. When Damen was finally restrained, Laurent found himself fighting back tears once again.

_I’m so sorry, Damen. I’m so sorry._

“You have drawn your sword in Kingsmeet,” the sentries echoed.

Damen did not seem to hear them.

“I’m going to kill you,” he said, eyes never leaving the Regent. His voice was as sharp and deadly as his sword.

_“You have broken the peace of the hall.”_

“The moment you laid your hands on him, you were dead,” Damen continued, and Laurent’s legs almost went out.

_“The laws of the Kingsmeet are sacred.”_

How he had longed for someone to protect him, save him. Care about him. All the years he spent under his uncle’s thumb, every step he had to take alone out of his torment. Damen would never know what he was saying, the ways it touched Laurent’s heart.

“I will be the last thing that you see,” Damen’s voice snarled around the words, “You will go to the ground with my blade in your flesh.”

“Your life is forfeit to the King,” the sentry finished.

Damen laughed like a dying animal, “The King? Which King?”

“In fact, there is only one King here,” the Regent said quietly.

Finally, the reality of what had just happened seem to dawn on Damen. Laurent’s stomach sank impossibly lower.

“No,” Damen’s voice was ragged, “You heard what he did. You all _heard him,_ are yoi going to let him do this?”

_Oh, my brute,_ Laurent bit his lip, _no one has ever stopped him before._

The sentry, deaf to his rightful king, bowed to the Regent, “You are the King of Vere and not of Akielos, but the attack was against you, and a king’s judgement is sacred in the Kingsmeet. Pass your sentence.”

“Kill him,” the Regent said, as if he was remarking on the weather.

The effect was instant. Damen’s head was forced down to the ground as another soldier picked up his sword.

“No,” Laurent said, and while he had expected the word to come out as a scream it was shockingly flat. “Stop. It’s me you want.”

“ _Laurent,”_ Damen cried out.

“It’s me you want, not him.”

“I don’t wnat you, Laurent,” his uncle said, but Laurent could see his eyes flashing, “You are a nuisance. A minor inconvenience that I will clear from my path without much thought.”

“ _Laurent,”_ Damen hissed.

“I’ll come with you to Ios,” Laurent said quietly, “I’ll let you have your trial. Just let him--” Laurent paused for a moment as emotion threatened to break him, “Let him live. Let him walk out of here whole and alive. Take me.”

This was what his uncle was waiting for. With a satisfied smile, he said, “Beg.”

Laurent was pushed forward, and he forced himself to walk purposefully towards the terrifying, looming nightmare of his uncle.

Thinking of Damen, and nothing else, he lowered himself to his knees.

“Please,” Laurent said quietly, “Please, uncle. I was wrong to defy you. I deserve punishment. Please.”

_Good boy, good. Aren’t you my good, sweet little Laurent?_

“Is this exchange acceptable to you, Exalted?” the sentry asked.

“I believe it is,” the Regent’s voice was mild, “You see, Laurent. I am a reasonable man. When you are properly penitent, I am merciful.”

“Yes, uncle,” the words were like coals in his throat, “Thank you, uncle.”

The sentry bowed, “The exchange of a life satisfies our laws. Your nephew will face trial in Ios. The other will be held until morning, then released. Let the will of the King be done.”

“ _Let the will of the King be done.”_

Behind him, Damen shouted, “ _No.”_

Laurent could not look at him. If he looked at Damen, all would be lost.

He stood.

“Come, nephew,” his uncle commanded.

He followed.

It was painful to leave his heart there on the floor of the Kingsmeet, but Laurent rolled his shoulders back and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. One more step. Then another. Then one more. Until, mercifully, this would be over.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
